Get Busy Living
by ReconstructWriter
Summary: In the aftermath of Voldemort's return, Harry gets the answers he sought and becomes more proactive. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. A deconstruction of 'Harry improves himself over the summer' stories.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I like 'Harry Improvement' stories. They've got exciting fight scenes, interesting world building, new magic and a Harry Potter who might stand a chance against Voldemort. Unfortunately many of these stories get a little too formulaic, so lets twist things up a little.

 **Chapter 1**

Harry Potter leaned beneath his relative's window sill, prickly Hydrangea stems digging into his side as he listened to the muggle telly. It was his only hope of learning anything about the newly-returned Voldemort's crimes or battles.

"…and in other news sunny days galore as the drought continues into June and early July. Up next, valuable tips to save on valuable water."

No luck yet. Weather talk meant nothing interesting had happened. Hot, muggy air enveloped Harry like a blanket. Just above bruised bags, tired lids drooped. The wizard's head dropped an inch, chin into his chest. Sleep had been so elusive. Summer's warmth felt good on his bare skin, the furthest thing in the world from the cold air of the graveyard, the chilly stone beneath his cheek and back as Voldemort rose like a wraith.

 _Crack._

Harry shot away from the Hydrangea bush, head colliding hard with the windowsill above. On adrenaline-powered instinct, he drew his wand and aimed. Nothing. No graveyard. No death eaters. The most sinister figure around was his cousin Dudley. His pounding heart calmed. The crack had been a backfiring car, not the sound of death eaters teleporting in by the dozens. Nothing looked at all out of the ordinary or magical, nothing suspicious or strange. He relaxed. This was Privet Drive. The most interesting thing about it was Harry himself.

A cat fled to Ms. Figg's. Harry looked up just in time to be hit by a black blur. Lupine teeth flashed in his face. A Grim, the magical creature that foretold death. Its massive, fanged mouth descended on him.

A wet, pink tongue slobbered all over his face. "Padfoot?" Harry whispered, "What are you doing here?"

The dog stepped back, barked softly and another surprise stepped up, "Professor Lupin?"

"Hello Harry," he said softly, "The old dog wanted to come out and see you. He didn't think being trapped at a relatives' house was good for you…or for him."

The dog gave Professor Lupin a distinctly human pout.

A horrible suspicion flared up in Harry's mind. "Prove you're Professor Lupin." He pointed his wand at the graying, scarred man.

The dog's eyes widened and its bark sounded almost like a word but Remus smiled sadly and said, "I taught you your Patronus. It's a stag, like your father's animagus form."

Harry nodded and lowered his wand sheepishly but Remus shook his head, "None of that. These are dangerous times. A little extra caution could save your life." He lifted a few bags. "Now I have a little too much takeout for myself and Sirius has never been one for waiting patiently while there's food around.

For the first time since Voldemort's return, Harry smiled.

While Vernon was stomping off to work and Dudley stomping off with his gang, Harry led Remus and Sirius through the backyard and into the house. "So has there been any news? Any…attacks?" Harry asked quietly, "The muggle telly hasn't said anything."

"Let's get inside, have something to eat," Remus suggested. "There we can talk in private." He nodded to the peaking neighbors who vanished like puffs of smoke. Harry grimaced. Hopefully his aunt had gone shopping instead of gossiping.

There was one rickety chair in Harry's room. He offered it to Remus. Sirius flopped onto the bed and Harry sat beside him on the floor. Opening the bags, Remus pulled out several boxes that couldn't have fit without the aid of magic. "I wasn't certain about preferences, so I got a selection. As to what has happened: very little."

"What?" Harry frowned in disbelief, taking his box.

Sirius transformed back into a human, keeping away from the window, and ripped open his take-out box. "Remus," he warned. Harry looked worriedly between the two. "He's not wrong," Sirius defended. "Snake-face has been keeping a low profile. Not a disappearance or death that could lead back to him. Not since—"

Cedric. The name brought a ghost of the cruciatus to his heart. "That's good, right?" Harry managed a bite of food.

"Better than him murdering and torturing left and right," Sirius said, "But it makes his re-appearance hard to prove."

Harry couldn't have been struck so dumb by a silencio. The fork fell from his hands. "What more proof could they need? I saw everything, told everything." His voice rose. "The Minister heard Barty Crouch Jr's confession and Cedric!—" his throat choked up. "He…he died…" Harry trailed off.

In a placating voice Remus said, "We know, we believe you but Harry most people don't want to think about You-Know-Who. His previous reign was…" His voice turned hoarse with pain. "People died and vanished left and right; best friends and family mind-controlled. Corpses with their skin missing or worse, no body ever found." Remus looked Harry dead in the eye. "You have seen the briefest touch of the horror _he_ can inflict. Most people don't want him to be back and if there isn't enough evidence—"

"A dead body isn't enough evidence?" Harry said. "What do they think happened, Cedric and I threw unforgivables at each other?"

Remus and Sirius stayed silent.

"They don't…"

"They cling to the lies because otherwise they would have to accept the truth," Remus added softly. "And the truth is Voldemort."

Harry poked at his food again but didn't eat.

"People really believe I _killed_ Cedric?"

"Of course not, but everyone is saying what a horrible, tragic accident—"

"Ha," Sirius interrupted darkly, "If Fudge could make that charge stick you'd have been in Azkaban weeks ago." He pulled out several newspapers and clippings from another bag. "That's what's been happening."

"Great," Harry tossed one paper criticizing his lack of sanity toward the trash-can. "And while everyone sticks their heads in the sand believing the truth is bonkers, Voldemort is growing more powerful." Harry sprang to his feet. "What do I do?"

"Nothing." Remus soothed. "The Headmaster has not been idle. Not everyone believes the Prophet's rubbish. We have allies and plans. Take it from someone who's been through one war: enjoy your time now."

"He's been after me since I was a baby. The first time it was my parents. Last time it was Cedric," Harry's voice dropped. "What if it's Ron or Hermione…or you?"

Remus gave Sirius a look Harry couldn't read before smiling softly, "We will be careful and do our best not to take unnecessary risks."

Sirius grumbled, "I would rather die than live to see you die but we will do our damnest to stay alive."

Downstairs a door opened, freeing everyone from dark thoughts. Remus stood, "We should get going before we're found.

His godfather hugged him tightly, fiercely, a little desperately and Harry hugged back, savoring a glimpse of what could have been. "Thanks for visiting. Don't suppose I could visit you sometime?"

"Of course," Sirius said. "We'll work things out with Dumbledore. In the meantime," he paused and pulled out a mirror. "I was waiting until your birthday but you could really use this now. It's a two-way mirror. Anytime you want to talk, just say my name. Completely secure." He transformed back into a black dog.

Remus stood. "Goodbye Harry. I may be busy as well but never too busy for your owl."

Harry nodded and showed them out. "Thank you," he said just before they left. "Thank you for telling me…I'd rather know."

Remus nodded while Sirius gave him an inscrutable look and tapped the mirror with a paw. Then they vanished, leaving Harry with his answers and more nagging questions.

So lost in thought, he didn't hear the front door open.

There you ar—" She froze when, the instant he'd realized another person was there, Harry had drawn his wand, tip glowing before the enemy—

His aunt reeled away from him, white faced, "Put that thing away," she hissed.

—Not an enemy, just Petunia. Harry lowered the wand and she regained her composure. "What is wrong with you boy?" she snapped. "Well never mind, Duddy dins needs his luncheon and tea and I need—"

His temper returned, "I've got other things to do."

Petunia wrinkled her nose as though she'd gotten a whiff of dog shit. "That can wait—"

"Bugger off," Harry snapped and turned away.

She drew back with what she thought was haughty indignity. "See if you get any supper with that attitude," she huffed.

Harry ignored her. The Weasleys and Hermione had come through this summer too. Hermione. He brushed past his aunt and headed for the phone. Now what was her number again?

It took a phone book, but with a click, someone picked up the other line. "Hello," he mustered a scrap of politeness for the receiver, "This is Harry, may I speak to Hermione?" The voice on the telephone gave an affirmative.

"Harry? Why are you calling on the phone?" Hermione asked, "Not that I'm not happy to hear from you…"

"Snuffles told me about Voldy's arse-lickers. Don't want them intercepting the mail." He sighed, "I was hoping you could come over, I need…," Harry said.

"Of course, what time?"

"The sooner the better. He's alive and recruiting and the ministry is trying to pretend he doesn't exist and I'm the crazy one."

"I'll be there," Hermione said firmly.

* * *

Never let it be said Hermione backed down from a challenge. Her parents were still parking the car when she barged into the Dursley home, a bushy head of hair looming above a scroll of parchment hanging down to her calves. "I've outlined a rough idea for a training schedule regarding—" She stopped, lowered the parchment and looked between Petunia and Dudley. "Oh...where's Harry?"

"You-you…boy! You may not have your freakish friends…" Petunia began. She halted at the sight of Hermione's parents.

Mrs. Granger's jaw was set in an iron clench, her eyes like obsidian, her face as rigid as Professor McGonagall at her sternest. She was of a height with Petunia, but with the set of her shoulders and stance she towered over his aunt. Had she been a dragon, Harry thought, she would have smote Petunia to ashes with one infuriated breath.

Mr. Granger, of average height and healthy, which meant he was half Dudley's weight, was no less intimidating. Wild hair and an electric gleam in his eye gave him the aura of a mad scientist. One about to add the lightning.

"Not another syllable," Mrs. Granger said with terrible, controlled anger. "You will not refer to your own nephew or my daughter with anything less than politeness."

Petunia had some scrap of spirit, for her face whitened but her lips whitened as well. Fear and indignation warred in her mind and body, however she had instilled no strength in her son. After a lifetime of picking on those weaker than him, Dudley had all the spirit of a scavenger. He fled.

"And you will apologize to my daughter and your nephew." Mr. Granger added.

"My apologies." Petunia spoke in a tone of broken glass. "I have important business at Number Five."

This was a bold-faced lie, as she'd just come back from 'important business' at Number Five but Harry said nothing while his aunt left, her stride nearly quick as a run. "Sorry about her," he apologized to the Grangers.

"Well you can't choose family," Mrs. Granger invited herself into the parlor.

"Her behavior isn't your fault. I'll make some tea anyway. It would be good for you youngsters to have a nip after whatever summer plans you're getting up to." Mr. Granger added. "Just remember I could deliver it up there at any time. Any time."

"Proper tea. Without _sugar_ ," Mrs. Granger referred to the substance with all the vehemence Gryffindors usually referred to Slytherin. "I'm certain the Dursleys won't mind." She followed him into the kitchen.

Harry was certain the Dursleys would mind very much, but he cared even less for their opinion than the Grangers and only thanked Hermione's parents. "Have fun with your summer plans and do not eat any carnival food," Mrs. Granger added.

"Carnival food?" Harry whispered as soon as they were upstairs. "What do they think we're doing?" He reached for his door. "Don't they know?"

Hermione bowed her head, voice dropping, "Oh Harry I couldn't tell them. A wizard Hitler come back to life to kill us all. I'm frightened enough. How do you think my parents would feel?"

Harry hadn't ever asked how his friends were managing and felt his heart twist in a knot.

"And they would pull me out of Hogwarts in a second. We'd be half-way to Australia if they knew." Suddenly Harry was surrounded by bushy hair, vice-like arms and parchment. "But it's nothing compared to you. Witnessing Voldemort coming back and Cedric dying—" He flinched. She jerked back, "—Oh, I'm sorry I—"

"Look let's just…" he drew away, "First of all how do I know you're Hermione?"

"I suppose we do need to be more careful. We brewed Polyjuice Potion together in Myrtle's bathroom," she said promptly. "And how can I be sure you're Harry?"

"We rescued Sirius and Buckbeak with your time-turner," Harry said, smiling faintly.

"When Ron gets here that is going to be the first thing on the agenda, figuring out a way of telling the difference between friend and foe." She paused and made a note of it on the parchment. "The first war was…characterized by imperious curses and polyjuiced impersonators—splintering group cohesion. You did call Ron right?"

"Yes Professor Granger," Harry teased. "Right after I got ahold of you." They entered Harry's bedroom where Hermione took in the cramped space and second-hand furniture. Physical proof of the Dursleys neglect.

The awkward moment was broken with a knock on the window.

At first Harry thought Ron had gotten an invisibility cloak, or maybe the vague outline of a person was because of a spell. He opened the window a crack. "What's the emergency?" His friend asked.

Well, that was Ron's voice.

"How do we know you're Ron?"

Ron sighed, "You're turning into Mad-Eye mate. Right I love Chudley Cannons—"

"—Something only Ron would know—"

"—and Lockhart caved-in the Chamber of Secrets when he tried obliviating us with my broken wand." Harry shoved the window higher and Ron floated in, looking distorted and chameleon-like until he pulled out a vial and downed it. Visibility rippled over him. "So, what's going on?"

"How did you do that?" Hermione asked.

"One of Fred and George's products they wanted testing. I wasn't about to fly anything but a broom." He shuttered, "Cars just aren't meant to be in the air."

Neither of his muggle raised friends said a word about brooms. "We need to prepare." Hermione unfurled the scroll, "Now that V-Voldemort is back he is certainly preparing for war, we need to keep safe."

"I've talked with Snuffles and Professor Lupin, they both say Voldemort's recruiting but not killing…yet," Harry said.

"And the ministry doesn't know the Quaffle's been thrown," Ron said wisely. "I've heard loads from my house. We're all moving into some sort of secret headquarters for a while. More strange people have been coming over: aurors, Mad-Eye himself, even Snape. Dumbledore's calling them up. The ministry might not be liftin' a finger—blimmey Percy won't shut it on his stupid quarterly iteming report—but Dumbledore is."

"That's great and all but I don't want to sit here while other people risk their lives for us." Harry said.

A more sensitive person would have kept their mouth shut at the look on Harry's face. Ron blithely continued. "They're trained aurors mate. Some of them anyway. We're school-kids. What can we do that they can't? Mione, this looks like a list of summer homework. The profs have given us enough of that."

"We can do something besides waiting for Voldemort to attack Hogwarts at the end of this year. Again." Harry said. "He's always been after us. Me especially," For a moment Harry looked at them guiltily.

"All of us," Hermione read his expression. "I'm a mudblood and Ron's a blood-traitor—"

"Too right. We're in this together," Ron added.

"—He will be after all of us, which is why we need to prepare. This is a bit like summer homework, only if we fail the consequences are a little graver than a T."

Harry winced as Ron looked over the list. "Wandless magic? Potions? Guns? What's all this?" Ron asked.

"We're underage," Hermione said, "And I haven't found a way around those laws—"

"Hermione trying to break a law?" Ron teased.

"—and we need some method of self-defense so I was hoping to go into wandless magics of some sort, such as potions."

"Too much to hope for some kind of super-secret, uber-powerful magical casting that doesn't require a wand," Harry asked.

"If there was mate, would we be paying Ollivander seven galleons for a stick?" Ron pointed out. "And that's with Ministry helpin' out. But what's with the gums?"

"Guns are muggle weapons but there's no reason we cannot use them ourselves, or enchant them to make them better once we're in school," said Hermione. "Besides it's the only kind of muggle fighting practical against magic and capable of being mastered over a summer. The sort of people Voldemort likes to recruit aren't likely to be exposed to them either."

"If muggle gungs—"

"Guns Ron."

"—Guns are so great why isn't Dumbledore using them?"

Hermione slipped into lecture-mode. "There are two main downsides. Guns are heavily restricted in most countries, with the notable exception of the United States, so we will have a difficult time acquiring something of defensive value. The second downside is…they are lethal. If we use guns, we will use them to kill."

No one added anything.

Ron cleared his throat, "So potions, physical fitness?" He laughed weakly, "Trying to torture us?"

"We can't practice wand magic until September first, which is over two months away," Hermione said. "Until then we must learn those skills we can without a wand. Do you have enough potions supplies for all of us?"

"The Dursleys won't like it," Harry said, digging through his trunk. "No time like the present."

"But you just said…" Hermione trailed off. "Oh very well. I also brought my copy of Most Potente Potions."

"Bonkers," Ron grumbled. "Potions during summer vacation and muggle guns. Prophet's right, you are nutters mate." He paused and in a moment of self-realization added, "And I'm followin' you so I've gone 'round the bend too."

Petunia returned hours later, her welcome worn out among her neighbors. She stiffened when she saw the car still parked where her husband's normally was—and such a plain old thing, at least ten years out of date and the green door clashed horribly with the vaguely-orange coating. Oh what if the neighbors thought it was their car? They would gossip for weeks, the shrill bitches. But when she opened the door, she forgot all about _that_ family. The stench emanating from her house was worse than any neighborly gossip. That awful, disgusting reek wasn't a toilet eruption or rotten food or any normal unpleasant odor. No, this was the stench of magic.

With righteous indignation Petunia stormed inside, holding her nose, to spy two _cauldrons_ on her stove-top. She had eyes for nothing else. Not the three teens carefully adding ingredient after ingredient to a slowly simmering cauldron. Not the wonder (and disgust) on the Granger's faces as the liquid turned different strange colors, sometimes bubbling ominously, sometimes settling into a soothing simmer.

"No." She shrieked. "Not magic. Not in my house. Out. Out! _Out!_ "

"They're not done yet; we still have to add the—" Hermione began.

" _Out!_ "

"Not until they're finished," Harry said, "Unless you want the whole house to explode?"

Petunia turned white as a sheet. Then the color of moldy sausage gravy and shot out Number Four without an excuse, all dignity abandoned. "Diddy dums, where are you?"

"They won't really explode? Will they?" Mr. Granger asked, shifting nervously.

"Of course not," said Hermione.

"Not unless Neville was making 'em," Ron added. "Now there's a bloke with a future in demolitions. Last potions class got canceled early and he's a week into summer vacation cleaning it all up."

"Really? You're alright though?"

"Of course," said Hermione, "There are spells cast in the classroom itself, wards and things, to keep students from being injured."

"But not ones to stop us from growing donkey ears," Harry grumbled.

"Did Shakespeare get a potion right in…Macbeth I believe it was," Mrs. Granger asked curiously.

"No." All three shouted. Hermione flushed, "It produces a purple goo that sticks to everything and takes three weeks to get off the classroom stone."

"Edgecomb was hounded by Ravenclaw for a month after that. She made them all look like dunderheads," Ron said.

"Done now." Hermione announced and the trio quickly began bottling the potions.

"You're perfectly welcome to continue brewing at our house," Mrs. Granger said.

Mr. Granger frowned, "As long as your next concoctions will be less aromatic," he wrinkled his nose.

"Don't worry, these were just the especially smelly ones," Harry said. "My cousin needs to lose weight anyway."

"Well then if you're all done let's fetch your ingredients and climb into the car," Mrs. Granger announced.

"Car?" Ron asked nervously.

"Don't worry Ron, it doesn't fly," Hermione said.

"What?" her parents turned toward her.

"Don't ask," Harry said.

* * *

The drive to Hermione's house wasn't long. The Grangers didn't live in Little Whinging but as soon as all the houses stopped looking like the results of a duplication charm, her mother pulled up to a beautiful two-story home. Unlike the Dursleys, their garden was a little ragged, but bountiful.

"These muggle homes sure are built strange," Ron commented. Harry gave him a look that said he had no room to talk about the strangeness of homes. "What?"

"Nevermind. Why haven't we visited each other Mione?" He asked. "A little far for walking but I could have flown here." If he'd snatched Dudley's racing bike before his cousin trashed it he could have biked here.

Hermione flushed, "Well, you haven't ever called before. I did invite you over the first summer back but—"

"Ah, Dobby."

The elder Grangers were clearly eaten up by curiosity, but restrained themselves to asking. "So what are you making? Some sort of over-summer assignment."

"Yes," Hermione said, "Though we're going a little above and beyond. Of all the teachers at Hogwarts Professor Snape has the strictest standards for his NEWT classes." She slipped into a lecture tone automatically.

"Nothing too smelly here dear." One Dr. Granger said. "Will you need the kitchen for the rest of the day?"

"That's okay," Hermione said. "My makeshift lab will suffice but thank you. Come on Ron, Harry, I'll show you up."

"Don't forget, we'll be checking in. Randomly." Said the other Dr. Granger.

Hermione's room was about the size of Dudley's but the lack of dirty laundry piles, broken toys and food threatening to become inferi made it look larger. Everything was laid out neat and organized. The bed in one corner. Bookshelves dominated another corner and two of the walls, wooden planks sagging beneath the weight of her personal library. In the opposite corner was a desk, a portable burner and more than the standard kit of potion's supplies.

"I suppose your parents are used to you brewing," Harry commented.

"Well, I have to do something over summer break," Hermione said. "Now while we're doing this we need to figure out a way of getting into the States and getting those guns."

"Can't we Owl Order?" Ron said. "The States are nuts. Torch-toting muggles. Paranoid Mad-eye Moody wizards. Are these guns that important?"

"Potions can only take us so far," Hermione said. "Don't worry, I've been to the States before with no harm and both Harry and I are good enough to disguise you as a muggle. Since we're underage we won't be able to use our wands anyway."

"Very reassuring 'mione."

Harry carefully started up the burner under Hermione's watchful eye. Ron added distilled water and asked the important question, "So if we can't Owl Order or anything, how're we going to get there?"

"Portkey?" Hermione suggested. Harry winced. "Sorry Harry."

"No, it's okay. I'm good."

Hermione and Ron gave him doubtful looks. "Portkeys cost a pretty penny and everything about them's tied up in laws," Ron said. "Percy finished ten feet of portkey regulations a week ago."

"Flying?" Hermione asked.

"Would take days and we'd all have to get brooms and not racing ones either, not for a trip across the pond."

"No, I mean on an airplane. Muggle airplanes can make the journey in less than a day," said Hermione. "Besides," she continued in the 'thinking as she spoke' tone, "That would cement us as muggles."

"We can't disappear for days," Ron said. "Mum will go spare. Then we won't have to worry about You-Know-Who."

"And if you say you're staying here?" Hermione asked.

"She'll owl your parents. And they'll go spare."

Hermione bit her lip nervously, "That won't be a problem," she opened Most Potente Potions, "With this."

"The confundus potion?" Harry looked the recipe over.

Ron sighed, "Better not be stinky or your parents will be all over us."

* * *

 **A/N:** I can't honestly see the trio permanently abandoning four years of friendship or betraying any of the others right off the bat. Anyway, Harry's not a planner so Hermione would be better for making up a list and thinking of ways to train. Ron, as in canon, keeps his friends on the sensible side of things. Or tries.

I'm a little surprised Sirius didn't talk Remus into visiting Harry in canon like this, but he totally would and their visit gave Harry the push he needed to reach out himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who followed, faved and reviewed. On to the second part where we heat things up.

 **Part 2**

Hermione was still fretting as the three of them handed in their 'tickets' and shuffled along with the rest of the crowd into the plane. She clutched her carry-on tightly, "This is wrong."

Ron stumbled beside her as a suited man jostled him. "No kidding 'Mione. Why did we nix that port—ow, watch it."

"You mean those charmed blank sheets of paper instead of tickets?" Harry asked.

"No…well, that too, but my parents…"

"It was your idea. Oi, gettoff, those're our seats."

Hermione winced, and not because of the tiny space she squeezed into."It's not confounding." She pushed her carry-on beneath her seat. "The potion name is a misnomer and it's a perfectly safe healing potion used for people to cope with traumatic memories by carefully diminishing the memory or memories in question until they are merely background events with no reported side effects—"

"This is your captain speaking—"

"Calm down Hermione," Harry said.

"They're my parents."

"—and please not the oxygen masks above your heads."

"Oxygen masks, what do we bloody well need those for?" Ron looked up, "Where are they."

"Shh, and pay attention and you'll find out."

Ron did find out and as the captain's speech wound down, stared at the other two, "You mean we could crash? We could die on this thing?"

The plane shook as it roared down the takeoff ramp. Ron clutched his trembling seat as the forces pressed his body against it. Over the draconic sounds, Hermione shouted, "Statistically planes are the safest form of travel—"

The plane appeared to hop, jostling everyone in their seats. A baby let out a thin cry that filled the cabin. Ron screamed, "This is not flight. This is mad. I want off this thing. I want my broom."

Harry began having second thoughts.

* * *

"Merlin, how can anything keep screaming that long?" Ron asked as they disembarked. He was the first one off the plane, despite sitting in the back. "That's it. No more planes for me. Give me a proper floo. Give me a portkey. Give me several days over the Atlantic on a broom but no more planes."

Harry elbowed Ron, "Quiet."

"We're in the States now," Hermione whispered. "New York."

Ron stopped, glancing around the mobs of people as though insane, gun-wielding muggles or curse-happy wizards would leap out in a hail of bullets. "Right." He jerked toward several people in dark uniforms. "What about those people. Are those…gungs?"

"Guns. And they're security, see the uniforms." Hermione said.

"Come on guys, let's get Snuffles," Harry lead them toward the baggage claims.

"What does security need guns for?" Ron whispered after them.

They picked up Sirius, who looked even worse than Ron after his flight as a dog. He rushed through the crowd, heedless of the yelps, shouts and three teenagers running after him. Ignoring the 'employees only' sign, he burst through the door, then through a second door.

Harry, Ron and Hermione caught up with him as he left his stall. "Never again," he said, human once more. "I'll get us illegal portkeys on the way out but Merlin do you know what they do to pets back there? The only reason I'm alright is from all the spells my cage had on it."

"You didn't have to sit twelve inches from a baby screaming for seven hours and forty-nine minutes," Harry said.

"You're a wizard aren't you, cast a silencing charm." Sirius grinned, looking a little more like his teenage self. "Hah, now where are those coordinates for the gun shop?"

"Gun show. It will take several jumps to apparate to the closest one, which is in Pennsylvania."

Sirius nodded and put a hand on Harry's shoulder, "Just like old times." With those comforting words, he apparated them both away, leaving Hermione and Ron waiting. Hermione pulled out a pamphlet.

Ron managed a minute of silence before he grew bored. "So what's with the bludgering over your parents?"

"Would you confund your mum?" Hermione asked.

Ron looked scandalized, "Of course not, she'd ground me for a century if I tried. And she'd blow my wand in thirty pieces. Used to be a dueling champion mum was."

"She was?"

"Never went pro," Ron's face fell, "Never enough money for a fancy apprenticeship. Anyway I couldn't. Literally."

"Well I can and I don't like it. How would you feel if you could confund your mum?"

Ron looked considerate. "Would make it a sight easier to get away from chores."

"Urgh! You are insufferable! Mind-magic. It's still," she waved a hand around, "An abuse of power. How would you like it if your mother confounded you every time you put your homework aside for Quiddich?"

"She wouldn't!"

"But you would?" Hermione snapped.

"If you don't want to confund them than don't do it," Ron shouted, exasperated. "No one's forcing you at wand-point."

"Ron, don't you get it. Haven't you thought?"

"You've pointed out thinking's not my hobby," he said.

Hermione deflated, "Well I do. I think about all kinds of things. I think about what the Wizarding World would be like with Voldemort ruling it."

Ron shuddered. "Now that's the stuff of nightmares. Need to find a new hobby."

She barely heard him. "And I think I'm going to have to do worse to my parents…just to keep them alive."

"Hey, what are you two doing here? This is the employees only."

Right behind the employee a grim-like dog burst into the room and opened its mouth, revealing glowing white teeth.

"What the fuck?" The muggle staggered away from the patronus.

The glowing Grimm spoke with Sirius's voice. "We've been ambushed." Then it disappeared.

Hermione drew her wand with some regret, pointing it at the gob-smacked employee. "Obliviate."

* * *

There was one upside to nausea-inducing travel. When Harry arrived in the middle of a fire-fight, he had ammunition ready. He and Sirius appeared in a small clearing, ringed by trees, right in front of several armed muggles who aimed their guns at the strangers. The woman in front yelled, "Where is he?"

Harry answered with a projectile-vomit.

Sirius reacted just as quickly. "Serpenlifors."

People fired but metal shifted into scales as their bullets tore through serpentine bodies. Some bullets ripped through meat and scales, shooting off at crazy angles. Others flung their former weapons away from them, scrambling for a knife or stick. Over the clash of wand and gun, one old, scrawny man started screaming, "It's them. It's them."

A lucky shot sliced Sirius's wand-arm. Another hit Harry in the meat of his thigh like a fiery lance. He screamed and fell to one knee. A third bullet hit the shrieking man low in the belly and he joined Harry on the ground, clawing at his stomach and crying in agony.

"Pap!"

Several people moved in front of the wounded man, drawing side-arms. Another charged Sirius before he could fire a spell.

"Protego!" The magic flew out of Harry's wand. Clear, pulsing energy raced ahead of his words, blocking the attacker's roundhouse kick. She staggered back, limping.

"Get back. Get clear." Putting action to words, the speaker looped the fallen man's arm over her shoulders and lifted him up and away from the fight. The one who hit Harry's shield joined the first. Leaden lumps slammed into his protego, making the shield flicker and falter. He lurched out of the way just as another bullet shattered his shield like a window.

Sirius's shield appeared as his fell, a glimmering golden dome. He cast a second spell that Harry's fuzzy hearing didn't allow him to pick up and a thick fog immersed their attackers. His godfather's follow up spell was a silent, black bolt.

Screams rent the air. The bullets faltered. As the mist cleared, they faced a stand-off between those who remained standing. No one fired. Limbs twitching from the aftermath of the last spell, the leader wearily said, "Just give us my son. Then we can all go."

"We don't have him you daft muggle," Sirius shouted back. "Obliv—"

Shots fired. Time slowed down. Harry's heart stopped beating as the golden shield shattered from the last bullet and it slammed into Sirius's skull. His godfather's head snapped around as he fell into the grass and leaf-litter. A terrible rage overtook Harry. The pain was gone, buried under so much fury and shock and horror that the wound in his leg was _nothing_. He slashed his wand at her, no spell on his lips, only intent. Air broke with a crack more sickening than any bone. The ground beneath the muggles exploded and forced them back. The shock-wave hit him as hard as any bullet.

Harry fell to his knees.

The muggles fled.

Had bullets been killing curses, Harry and Sirius would have died, but no muggle gun could replicate that deathly green light. After seconds or minutes or maybe hours of hazy pain, Harry staggered to his feet, one hand pressed against his leg, blood oozing from between his fingers. He was alive.

His godfather lay on the ground, so still, blood bursting from the wound in his skull, matting his black hair. "Padfoot," he croaked. his throat closed as though hit with a constriction curse. Blood flowed faster from Harry's wound as he drew one wet hand away to press two trembling fingers to his godfather's pulse.

Nothing.

"Sirius?" Harry's voice sounded wet, like he was speaking beneath water about to choke him. His godfather's eyes were just as glassy as Cedric's, staring vacantly at the sky.

"Padfoot?" His godfather's chest wasn't moving. The skin was warm but his face was so still.

Until Sirius blinked.

Harry blinked.

Sirius blinked again. He wasn't dead. The mounting terror and adrenaline swept out of him like the tide; the lack of it made him giddy and ready to pass out all at once. Harry fell to his knees in the muddied ground. "Don't die on me. Please…don't die on me too."

A lance of pain hit him like the after-shock of the cruciatus curse. No. Harry reached for the bag of potions that had miraculously survived. Explosive, poison, acid, where were the healing potions? Harry snatched the sickly booger-yellow vial and forced his godfather to swallow it. A second one, the color of bled-out flesh, he poured on every bleeding wound until Sirius brushed him off.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm fine now," he tried muscling Harry up but the two staggered against each other. Harry's body felt so heavy without adrenaline and terror to keep him up.

"No, no hang on Harry!" Sirius cast a flurry of spells, wand whipping the air. They didn't do much but Harry could suddenly smell the stench of blood. Padfoot's spells awakened him enough to feel the pain. Sirius yanked the pouch from Harry's failing hand. "Where's the potions."

"Used them…on you."

"No. You shouldn't use them all on one person—. Damn it." Sirius looked up, the cords of his jaw standing out. "Stay right here. I'm going to cast a stasis spell on you. Ron and Hermione, they have more right?"

"Yes."

"I'll get them. You've got your invisibility cloak?"

"Yes."

"Okay, this should keep your leg from falling off." He cast the stasis spell. "Here." The invisibility cloak covered Harry. "I'll be right back, I promise."

With a crack, his godfather vanished, leaving Harry wondered why Sirius hadn't taken him along. Was he too badly hurt? Apparation could go wrong. He'd heard about something called splinching and didn't want to find out what it meant first-hand. Like he usually did.

Crunching leaves snapped his musings. Harry stayed perfectly still and listened. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Footsteps, growing closer. Hopefully just a curious rabbit. A shadowy human figure fell over him. With a cool, silky sweep the invisibility cloak was yanked off, revealing him to the lead attacker. Her face was streaked with black and green paint.

"So you saved the wizard and he abandoned you. Typical." Harry tried to yell at her, to say his godfather would never abandon him. He'd broken out of prison to save him—and kill Pettigrew. The woman lifted him up and over her shoulder before walking away. "Can…can you find him? With your magic? Find my son?"

He would have loved to tell her that they would have if she'd just asked first, but Sirius's spell kept him too limp to speak. He could only dangle uselessly over her shoulder as she hiked.

Her shoulders slumped, "Of course you can't. Or you won't. Fine then, maybe your friends will…if they didn't leave you behind." She carefully ducked through the door of a cabin and laid his limp body down on an old couch. "Stay right there, I'll be back."

She came back with a med kit of all things and carefully cut away the pants on his leg to reveal the bullet wound. Applying some kind of po—muggle medicine to a cloth, she dabbed at the wound.

Forcing his lips to move, he croaked, "W…hy."

She glared at him, "You think I'm crippled for not having magic. Better off dead. But I'm not gonna treat you like that."

"W…he…re o…th…rs?" he managed with slack muscles.

"Don't know where your father went. Mine are off getting Pap some proper medical treatment if they've any sense. And don't you go babbling about all us. Those memory wipes of yours only make things worse. Why Pap used to be—"

A crack interrupted her rant. Apparation. What had taken so long? She dropped the last of the bandage and flattened herself, one hand drawing a pistol. When no one appeared right in front of her, she crept toward the window and peered out, then crouched down just as slowly. After quietly crawling back to him and tying off his bandage, she pulled out a rifle from beneath the couch. That was when Harry realized this wasn't just a cabin. It was an armory.

Harry fought against the spell which struggled to save his life. He had to warn his family. Beyond his quickening heartbeat Harry heard spell-fire. His kidnapper/rescuer leveled her pistol just as Sirius appeared.

Never in his life had Harry possessed the need to move as he had then. Pure will hoisted him to his feet and his body followed, breaking through the spell like a firstie's casting. His godfather turned in their direction. Harry hit the last shooter with a full body slam just as she pulled the trigger.

A crack rent the air. So loud, so close, he flinched as if he were struck before colliding with something that was not the floor. Someone was shouting. It sounded like Latin. He pointed his wand, a spell on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite say the words. He couldn't see a target either. Had he lost his glasses? His sight tunneled, darkness eating away at the edges and he could only see the woman's blanching face. He tried stopping her but his wand weighed his arm down. A wave of dread swept over the teenage wizard. He had felt this before, after the Basilisk had bit him, the numbness and dizziness and deep, driving agony pulsing through his arm. Pain blossomed in his chest, as though it had been waiting for him to face it. His knees hit wood with a hard crack. He couldn't see the woman anymore, only the floor.

It was red.

Harry woke to Hermione's solemn face. The sort of face worn after all the crying's done and the tears are all dried up. Her normally bushy hair was lank like Snape's, her eyes hollow and red. The floor was hard and sticky beneath his back and the whole house was silent. "Harry…" she swallowed the dryness out of her mouth, "Thank Merlin."

"Safe? You guys…safe?" he rasped.

"Yes but Harry…that was so close." She tapped his chest where the bullet had gone in. "You…her bullet hit you in the chest and went out the other side."

A prickle of cold dread seized the back of his neck. Then why am I not dead? He wanted to say. Dead like Cedric, dead like Sirius could have been.

His godfather enveloped him in a gentle hug, "Harry, I promise not to risk my life like a fool if you promise the same thing. Please. You and Remus are all I have left. I can't lose you too." The bullet in the chest had hurt less than his godfather's words. "And next time summon me out of the way or something. Your body makes a manky shield." Sirius cradled him gently, "You need to learn this stuff pup."

"How," he rasped, "Why?" Why am I alive? How did I live?

Hermione enlightened him, "The bullet miraculously missed any of your vital organs: your heart, your lungs, any of your arteries or your spine."

"Used a hundred years of lucky stars with that mate," Ron stepped into the room, shaking his head in wonder. "We won't have to go shopping for guns. I've poked around. This house is full of 'em."

"This had better be worth it," Sirius said. "I almost lost you."

Harry nodded, "Never again. We take the guns, hide them and go back home." A thought came to his mind as he looked around. "Where is she? The woman who…"

"The Aurors found us," Hermione said, "Not Sirius or we would be in a very awkward court room, but they were tracking down the relatives of a murdered man," and now Harry knew what happened to her son. "…I know she shot you but I hated to hand her over."

Ron shrugged, "She was bloody bonkers. Dunno if even a good obliviate will help."

Harry looked around at all the guns, at the thick, metal door and its half a dozen locks, and wondered if the obliviate would make things worse. Ron helped Harry up, wincing.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"Had a lot of traps there, stepped into one."

"A healing potion?"

Ron shook his head, "Used 'em all on you." At the look on Harry's face Ron added, "And you needed every last one. Awful mate." Harry had never seen him so sickly looking. "Dunno what good these guns are going to do for us though? Didn't do these muggles much good."

"They aren't used to fighting wizards," Hermione said, "And Sirius did say you practically apparated right on them. But we will need to train. Now boys," she waved a hand around the room, "Pick your poison."

One gun safe towered next to the front door. A simple aloramora showed a good dozen inside. More locator spells showed a second gun safe upstairs and a red glow surrounded a gun beneath the mattress in the bedroom.

"Effen bonkers they were," Ron grumbled.

"Your parents were like that," Sirius said. "Toward the end of the war. Everyone was…and for good reason."

Hermione interrupted the silence before it could brood. "Another glow came from the basement. Shall we see what was down there."

They opened the basement door. Everyone took a good look at the decor in complete, shocked silence. Hermione canceled her spell and found the light-switch. Sirius summed it up. "I thought that was only in the films?"

The basement was decorated with genuine wall-to-wall guns. Racks of rifles, rows of pistols, bundles of shotguns. Machine-guns to muzzle-loaders. Hermione had brought a book and was staring between the knowledge of its pages and the sheer variety of lead-shooting weapons on the walls and, in a few cases, hanging from the ceiling.

"Merlin," Ron whispered.

"Do you know what all these are? The specifics." Harry asked Hermione.

"No. I would need…" she waved her non-wand hand in frustration, "An encyclopedia, a gun dictionary to categorize all these."

Sirius nodded in agreement, "Let's just round them all up and sort them out later. Everyone know the shrinking charm?"

"Make sure they're unloaded first," Hermione warned, "We don't need one or more likely a dozen of these things going off in our carry-on luggage."

The other three shuddered and began taking down guns. Several weapons were, true to their former owner's paranoia, loaded so the quartet set up something like an assembly line. One person took down guns, another one made sure they were unloaded, a third person shrank them and a forth packed them away. They had to switch around to keep from being magically exhausted but the four stripped the basement and house bare of weaponry.

"Let's get back to that plane," said Ron.

Sirius paused, "I still need to take you guys there one at a time."

"Ron first," Harry said, "Hermione and I will stay here with the guns."

"Thanks mate, now I get to run into an ambush," despite his words Ron didn't hesitate to step by Sirius's side.

Hermione was already un-shrinking two and loading them, "We'll have the guns."

Sirius nodded, "I'll be back in a second."

"I'll time you," Harry said.

Time passed so slowly Binn's class would have felt like three forward turns of a time-turner in comparison. Both Harry and Hermione took up a gun; Hermione's finger carefully outside the trigger guard, Harry's resting unsafely on the trigger. A single bullet could save him. A single bullet, rightly aimed, could also spell his godfather's death. The vivid image haunted him worse than any ghost, of Sirius lying so still. The blood oozing from a wound and the hollow pit of Harry's heart gaping. The last of his family…gone.

"They will be alright."

"Yeah," Harry said.

* * *

They got through customs with dozens of shrunken guns mistaken for little toys or models, slipped onto the plane and drank the last of their healing potions, despite Ron's complaints. Through the flight kids shrieked and screamed like their lives were ending. The four wizards were too exhausted to care. Sirius slept through half of it beneath Harry's invisibility cloak. They disembarked more easily, serious wounds faded to uncomfortable tugs and raging headaches at some ungodly hour of the night.

Sirius apparated Harry back to Privet Drive, reluctant to let go.

"I'll be fine," Harry soothed. "My house is right there," he pointed to one of the many carbon-copies. Sirius glanced at Miss Figg's place before nodding slowly. "You need to get back. You could get caught."

"You're worth the risk pup."

"I'll be fine."

His godfather finally gave in, but cast a finite on one of the pistols and its ammunition first. "Stay safe Harry, call me if you need anything," Sirius hugged him one last time before disapparating.

The walk back to Number Four was creepy. The sun had set. Lights dimmed. Despite the summer heat a chill cut the air and Harry heard Cedric's ghostly whisper, "Wands out, you think?"

Harry drew his wand, speeding up his pace but changing the motion of his feet, making his steps quieter. Eyes and ears open, he scanned the familiar neighborhood. No cracks of apparation, no dark figures skulking, no flash of spell-fire. Privet Drive looked as normal as ever, complete with neighbors peeking through curtains and slits, staring at the overly-paranoid teenager carrying a stick as though it was a gun. Harry slipped his other hand into his pocket but dared not draw the weapon. In a muggle neighborhood like Privet Drive, showing a pistol would be at least as bad as casting a spell. Probably worse because the oblivators would wipe any spell slinging from everyone's minds.

Nothing.

He grabbed the doorknob and started opening the front door.

It flew open. Harry jabbed his wand at his attacker's chest, a spell on his lips. Crap. No. The gun.

Vernon's bellow cut through the night air. "BOY!"

Something about Vernon's voice pinged Harry's inner alarms. He'd heard every subtle pitch of anger from his relatives by now: the teeth-clenched 'into the cupboard' tone, the roaring 'you did freakishness' tone, the holier-than-thou 'good for nothing' tone. But not even Vernon had spoken to him with such unrestrained fury. Something had snapped.

"What did you do to my _son!_ "

Behind Vernon, cradled in Petunia's arms, Dudley Dursley lay limp as a corpse.

* * *

 **A/N:** More twisting the clichés, which I love to do. Martial arts are cool but you can't get close to a black belt in a summer, let alone learn much useful against magic-wielding terrorists. I also like the whole 'gun vs wands' thing, so I'll explore it a little more. Also, the US is so often written as more progressive/superior than our UK counterparts, which is highly debatable, so I went a different and hopefully more interesting route.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for following and favoriting this story. Had a hard time with this chapter but finally got everything straightened out. Here we explore the consequences of actions.

 **Chapter 3**

Harry stared at the Dursley family.

Petunia cradled her son's head in her arms. The rest of him was still attached, not that it did any good. Dudley lay on his mother's lap like a dead elephant seal—limp, doll-like, glassy eyes open and unseeing. Harry had seen eyes like that on a person before. Cedric had such eyes after a flash of green light took his life. There was no lost love between the cousins, but Harry still felt physically ill. This had to be a nightmare.

Looking very closely though, Harry caught movement. Dudley's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as though he were only sleeping. Dudley was not a corpse. Not dead. His face belonged to one of the dead though; expression frozen in a mask of horror, not confusion as Cedric's had been. His cousin was all the eerier for his half dead, half alive appearance.

All this he took in an instant. The next second Vernon blotted out the doorway. Harry might have been grateful if not for the expression on his uncle's face. For the first time in his entire life Harry saw Vernon cry. Unnatural. Vernon never cried. The rest of his face resembled a mad bull sighting a red flag: flushed with blood, teeth bared, brows hunkered down and fists clenched.

The part of Harry who had lived under Dursley feet, wary of Dudley's fists and Vernon's temper, said he should be frightened. His uncle was flushed so red and towered so tall like something out of a nightmare. This was ten times worse than Dudley and his gang had ever been and he was going to get the shit beat out of him.

Harry's heart should have sped up, his legs should be trembling, but he had gone to a school for wizards and faced a troll twice as tall as Vernon and giant spiders as large as any car. He had fought and killed a basilisk, drove back a horde of dementors, out-flew a Hungarian horntail and dueled Voldemort in a graveyard. The realities he fought could have eaten his former nightmares for breakfast. Harry raised his wand again.

"Don't you dare point that…that freakishness at me!" Vernon bellowed. "Not after what you've done." He pointed one pudgy finger back into the parlor. "What's happened to my son."

"I haven't been here in days. Last I saw he was fine." Harry's insides felt transfigured into goo as he spoke but his voice could have turned boiling water into ice.

"He's not anymore. And it's all your fault. You and your freakish magic. I should have never let you into my house," Vernon's voice broke. "Get out." He shoved at Harry, who dodged. Vernon stepped out of the doorway.

Petunia finally turned away from her son to face her nephew. Harry had seen that twisted look of spite before, but never so rigid, as though carved from stone. Nothing watered down her searing gaze of bitterness. Her voice cracked harsh as a whip but rang with the tone of a ritual. "This is no longer your home. You are no longer welcome here. You are no longer family. Get. Out."

Those words felt important, the air should tremble in their wake. It didn't. Harry felt nothing from his aunt's declaration. He didn't need to fight for a steady voice. "Fine. I'll get my stuff." Other kids might have wept. Other kids hadn't put up with the Dursleys. Maybe some tiny, flimsy, starved part of him cried before dying an ignorable death but it had been a long time since he'd hoped for affection from the Dursleys. Since he'd considered them anything more than stupid roommates to put up with. Since he considered Privet Drive as anything more than a home by default. Being thrown out of their house held all the emotional pain of a break up with Draco Malfoy. If anything, he felt like the time Hagrid had told him he was a wizard.

Vernon looked ready to cut into his wife's speech. Just as the walrus opened his mouth, more cracks, as though many guns had been fired at the same time, split the air. His uncle paused, confused a moment. Petunia raised her head once more, a tiny frown between pencil-thin brows; as though she knew something was out of the ordinary but could not put her finger on the worry.

Harry felt all the dread of a normal child abandoned by normal parents. He had heard that sound once before. At a graveyard.

"Run." he ordered, grabbing his uncle and yanking the man deeper into the house. Wild magic slammed the door shut. Wouldn't stop the death eaters for a second. Only because Vernon was dumbstruck with weakness could Harry have hauled him a few feet. Even when his uncle stopped, Harry lead by example.

"How dare you order us—"

"Those freaky wizards are here to kill you." Harry snapped.

Vernon turned to argue and caught sight of his wife's face. He followed her gaze out the window. Ominous black shapes approached, wands lit up in eerie green. A dozen of them. At least. His face turned the color of mold. One familiar teenage wizard he could take, but so many all dressed in freaky black robes and cloaks and carrying unnatural wands to…it strained his innate Vernon-ness. "But-but they're not supposed to be here," he blubbered. "This is Privet Drive. We're normal." His voice rose higher. "No freakiness allowed."

Petunia's face resembled a corpse more than her son, her expression fearful as her husband's but somehow worse. She knew why this was happening. Why the death eaters decided to strike now. A curse struck the house and outside he could hear the same high, cold laughter that echoed from his earliest memories. No time for questions. Harry took the steps three at a time as another curse rattled the foundation. Below Petunia screamed, "I knew you were a coward."

Harry didn't listen. Bursting into his room, odd calm settled within his pounding heart and surging adrenaline. The sure knowledge that danger was peering over his shoulder only heightened that calm. From outside someone bellowed another curse. The house shuttered as explosive force chewed through wood. No more agonizing waiting. Do or die. He tore away the loose floorboard and snatched his invisibility cloak. A horrible scream rent the air. He threw the precious material over his shoulders and drew the hood up. Unseen, he grabbed the bag of potions made…not even a week ago. Two days ago they were preparing and now the death eaters were here. The attack was here. He palmed the pistol his godfather gave him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said calmly next to his ear. No one was there. "We have a duel to finish."

Not even Voldemort could upset Harry's perfect balance of fear. Just enough adrenaline to sharpen his reflexes and senses. Not enough to turn him into a jittery mess of spasms. Just enough to sharpen his mind too. He scrawled a note: 'Voldemort's attacking me at Privet Drive' and yanked Hedwig's cage open. His owl plucked the note from his fingers. "Nearest order member. _Please_." Sirius had mentioned an order, about Dumbledore's people trying to stop Voldemort. The second Harry undid the window lock and pulled it open, she soared free. He grabbed his broom and followed. She kept low behind the houses to hide her pure white feathers, but Harry was hidden under the invisibility cloak and shot straight upward.

Boom.

Another flash of light. Another crunch of brick and wood. If his relatives hadn't fled by now…Harry put that out of his mind. Streetlights silhouetted black-clad death eaters. Despite the darkness, Harry could see them clearly enough. He took out a vial of potion from his bag. Drifting silently over the magical army, he let it fall like a bomb.

Glass broke explosively on the sidewalk, scattering the nearest death eaters like shrapnel. Darkness kept Harry from seeing the devastating horror, but he could hear the screams and see a spray of dark liquid against pale sidewalk concrete. A couple pieces of black remained of the scattering death eaters. Bile stung his tongue and threatened to tip the balance of fear into horror as Voldemort hadn't. Harry swallowed, grabbed another potion and sailed over the nearest clump of death eaters. Most scattered again. One did not. Another curse hit the Dursley house. It crumpled inward as though from a giant's fist. If his stupid relatives weren't gone by now, they were buggering idiots. Still, even they didn't deserve to die. Not like Cedric. No one deserved that.

Except Voldemort.

Most death eaters ignored the house, turning their wands on Harry, sending a blizzard of curses into the sky. Harry flew higher. As dark as it was, with his invisibility cloak and the bright street-lights blinding them, they couldn't have seen more than a flash in the darkness, but they shot so many curses. Dodging them was like dodging dozens of crudely-aimed bludgers. Many spells flew wildly off-course.

Some didn't.

The air was Harry's element, he was on the fastest broom ever made and the Avada Kedavra curse wasn't the fastest spell.

But over a dozen wands fired into the sky and Harry had to weave through every curse. A single hit could kill. One green light barely missed his shoes and he tucked himself closer to his broom. A subtle streak of magic burned his face. He threw another potion at them, but the death eaters had learned from their mistakes, spreading widely. One death eater still fell—but only one. Others lit up the night sky with dark magic. Fear and adrenaline turned Harry's grip to iron and numbed his mind. This was not the fear of night-terrors or scary movies. This fear hit deeper than the heart, turned around on itself and became a new kind of fear. The strongest fear. In this numb state the body reacted on instinct. Focused on survival. Thinking was impossible.

"Come to death."

Shooting a gun was not like shooting a wand, but the aiming part was similar. Harry stared down the barrel at the pale, inhuman face of his parents' murderer, Cedric's murderer and pulled the trigger. The sound was so sharp he felt it like a blow. Voldemort's face split to show teeth.

"A gun Harry Potter. Are you a muggle now?" Voldemort raised his wand. "Then die like one. Avada Kedavra." Harry dodged the curse but a dozen other killing curses flew toward him, straight on target.

Harry flung himself to the side, knowing he couldn't dodge so many. Everything slowed except his heart. The curses crawled to him. The world's fastest broom sailed leisurely. Harry tried to fuse himself with his broomstick; the first curse brush over his back like the scythe of death. Another flash of green missed his nose by a hair's breadth.

Another hit his broom. Green light exploded with destruction. Harry twisted the broom toward a roof and leapt off. His trusty firebolt bounced off the gutter and crashed onto the driveway with a clatter. Cracks echoed everywhere. Apparation. Harry hit the rough, pebbled shingles and flattened himself against the dark roof. The night echoed with whoops and laughter.

"—muggles can't have brooms Potter."

"—run little boy, just like the filthy muggle you are."

Boom. A curse flew into a house, bashing through walls more loudly than his gun. Miss Figg. Had she gotten away? Had her cats? With wand clenched in one hand and pistol in the other, Harry crawled to the top of the roof.

A crack split the air. Not a gunshot. Three feet from him stood a death eater.

"Woah," the masked figure fought for balance on one side of the roof, not straddling it like Harry. He shoved the muzzle of his pistol into the dark robes and fired, point-blank range. Blood spurted. The death eater hit the roof limply and slid off. Harry lobbed another potion at a group of enemies headed his way and followed the limp body without looking back. The first curses shattered the rooftop, drowning out even Voldemort's anger. Scrambling to the edge, he tried to swing himself off and hope none of his bones broke.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Crucio!"

Harry let go. Another curse slashed his side as he fell. He tried to roll like Wood taught him, ignoring the acid-sharp pain as magic split flesh. The killing curses changed to wider-area spells. Harry hit something fleshy. The body. Jumping to his feet, he bolted just before the spellfire hit.

"Did we get him?"

"No fools, are you muggles or wizards. Homenum Revelio."

Death Eaters took up the chant as Harry ducked behind the nearest wall, still gritting his teeth with every slash of pain from the gash in his side. He searched his trusty pouch for another vial. No smooth glass, no foamy texture of cork. No potion.

He'd finally run out.

In that crucial moment, their magic found him. A death eater pointed their wand at the wall. Ignoring the pain, Harry bolted. Magical force smashed through the corner of a house, turning brick into shrapnel and dust. A piece smashed into his back, jostling his side and turning his vision bright with agony. Another crack. He hit the ground. When he opened his eyes, a fuzzy, black and white shape loomed over him and he couldn't move his arms. "I've got—" Harry interrupted the death eater with wild kicks. The grip loosened and the death eater wavered. Harry yanked hard and rolled, tearing free as he'd once done from Dudley a lifetime ago. But this wasn't Dudley. Knotting his fists, Harry struck at the face, missed and hit the shoulder. Pinning the man's arm with one hand, he tore their wand free with the other, jabbing it at that masked face. Acting on sheer muscle memory he cast his most familiar spell.

"Expelliarmus!"

With a strange wand, the spell only yanked a bit of dirt out of the death eater's grip but their companions came to the rescue. The protego spell shot out the wand automatically. It was shattered in a moment by a hail of deadly curses and Harry barely flattened himself to the ground in time.

Spells shot from behind him. Death eaters fell.

He had friends.

A dog barked over the chorus of curses. Snuffles. Harry crept toward the sound, wet grass brushing his belly, mud squelching between his fingers and his side screaming with the tiniest tugs. Beside his godfather, Remus, an unknown witch and wizard fired on the death eaters. Padfoot herded him to the others. Remus was the second to notice. "He's safe. Let's leave."

With Sirius's help, Harry got to his feet. "What about…" Harry waved a hand at the muggle neighborhood.

"Take Mr. Potter and go," another wizard ordered in a deep voice. "You are the enemy objective. Leave, and so will they."

The witch's eyes flashed in wand-light, "And we'll give them plenty of reason to leave."

"Come on; hang on," Sirius said, pressing a sock in his hand. Harry clutched it and for the second time in his life was jerked away from death eaters and Voldemort by portkey. The last thing he heard was another crack and the headmaster's voice, "Ah, Tom—"

The world resolved itself into screams about mudbloods and blood-traitors, the stench of so much mold and dust mixing with the stink he brought himself: dirt and blood. Sirius hustled him over toward the fireplace, heat stinging his wounds, and flung a handful of floo powder to cool the flames.

"Madame Pomfrey's. Hogwarts."

Two types of nauseating wizard travel did what one could not. Harry collapsed to his knees, retching. His stomach burned, upset acid trickling through the slash in his guts. The pain was blinding, and he couldn't even claw at it. Couldn't do anything but gasp like a dying fish, trembling from the pain. Briefly, he felt even more sympathy for the muggle Pap.

"Oh lord, not another cruciatus curse." Someone (thankfully gently) turned him over. "Abdominal wound. And he's nauseous. What were you thinking? No get him up here." Magic lifted his body to the nearest bed as Madame Pomfrey's musical tones rang. "Look at this," another spell made his side hurt slightly less abominably. "Mr. Potter this does not bode well for your fifth year." She shook her head, "Could you not have waited until Halloween?"

"Didn't…do it…on purpose."

"Here, drink this." She pressed a potion to his lips. "Not even the beginning of school, hmph."

Harry drank. Unfortunately he couldn't pass out this time. The pain, the uncertainty, the adrenaline all conspired to keep him awake. His eyelids wouldn't close. More healing spells took the edge of the pain off and kept him awake. Not just the slicing curse. Madame Pomfrey bitched up a storm. More potions. They all tasted worse than his own bile. None of them put him to sleep.

"Is everyone okay?" He asked. Hedwig? The order members? The people of Privet Drive?

"You certainly aren't," Madame Pomfrey cast another healing spell at his side. "Do try to correct that this coming school year. I don't want you to have any reason to set foot in the infirmary for the rest of the year."

"But what about…"

"I will inform you of the others' conditions as soon as I know about it," she said. Briefly, she glanced at the rack of potions but shook her head and stuck to more spells. Had anyone died?

Some probably had, Harry thought, growing queasy. In the fight he'd flung explosive potions at the death eaters. Some of them hadn't looked too lively afterwards. In the heat of battle he'd pushed everything aside in a desperate bid to stop them from torturing and killing. The image leapt in his mind of Privet Drive covered in bodies staring glassy-eyed at the empty sky—order member and death eater, wizard and muggle. With the heat of battle gone, Harry struggled against his churning stomach.

Then the next person arrived. Madame Pomfrey switched patients and hit the unfortunate wizard with a whirlwind of healing spells. They struggled. Alive. More people appeared, filling the infirmary up. He couldn't make them out. Automatically his hand went to his face.

"No Mr. Potter, you lost your glasses in the fight," Madame Pomfrey answered the unheard question. Or maybe she had heard it? Could she read minds? "Leave it; once everything is said and done I will check your eyes. Merlin knows you need it."

Without the bliss of unconsciousness the night stretched out like an eternity of Binn's history lessons. Actually those lessons were faster. Every second took an hour to crawl by as Madame Pomfrey switched between himself and the others, keeping them from dying in a puddle of their own bodily fluids. He tried to rise and help—his side didn't feel that bad now—but she shoved him back down. "None of that. You're in no condition to be walking around. You'll just re-open those wounds. Who healed that nasty piercing curse in your chest? You're lucky it didn't hit any vitals."

A soft, white shape flew into the room. Harry heard no sound but even without his glasses recognized his owl. "Hedwig." Downy white feathers surrounded him and her beak ran through his hair. Trying to preen it.

Harry smiled, Hedwig was okay. "The others…they're alive. Right?"

"Yes, all the order members will live," Madame Pomfrey said, "Despite their obvious desire to do otherwise," she scowled at a lump on one of the beds. "Do you want to lose another limb Moody?"

"What…about?" He was going to ask about the neighbors. Poor Miss Figg who'd never really done him any harm. The gossipers and even his relatives.

But adrenaline had finally worn off or the potions had kicked in. His tongue felt like a lump of lead and the rest of him was going through the same transfiguration. He fought to keep his eyes open, fought to speak, but lost both battles. The last thing he felt was a beak running through his hair.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hope everyone enjoyed. This chapter began with the thought: 'well if Harry's gone from Privet Drive at the beginning of book five, will the dementors come?' And things spiraled into a horrible crash-landing from there.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you all again who reviewed and favorited and followed and all your support! You keep me going guys.

Guest: Yes, the Ministry definitely noticed a magical battle happening in the middle of a muggle neighborhood. In fact one ministry employee noticed the very second it started—Delores Umbridge.

Which explains a few things.

 **Chapter 4**

Harry's new prescription glasses let him see every splinter, every speck of ash, every crumb of rubble and splotch of blood Number Four Privet Drive was reduced to. He, Padfoot and the Headmaster were the only people in the neighborhood. Eerier than the scars of black magic that tore up asphalt, concrete and once-immaculate lawns. Creepier than the blood graffiti on rubble and wood where houses stood. What made the hairs on the back of his neck tremble was the lack of normal sounds. No cars driving nearby. No screaming kids. His Firebolt stuck like a broken flag in the wreckage of Miss Figg's house (thank Merlin she'd survived). A rotten stench wafted in the air. He shooed a curious fly away from his face. Not a single house on the block was whole, but Number Four gaped like a missing finger on the hand of Little Whinging. The feel of dark magic, prickling his skin like the stare of a monster, lingered everywhere.

"Just as well they kicked me out," Harry said, staring at his former home. No, the Dursley home. He laughed. "Glad I don't have to clean up this mess." There wasn't a recognizable piece of anything. It looked like someone had blown up a crater and used it as a landfill. Everything he left behind was gone.

He picked his way through shards of glass and potholes from his explosive potions. "I think my trunk is over here."

If it hadn't been torn apart too. He pulled away scraps of what might have been roof. Black gunk clung to his hands. Beneath was wood splintered finely to tinder. What about his photo album? Harry clawed through the scraps, digging deeper into his former room and wincing as his freshly-healed wounds throbbed. Madame Pomfrey had done her usual job, though she warned him to avoid anything strenuous before he'd escaped her clutches. Even magical healing could only do so much. He stopped, waited for the burning in his side to ease. Padfoot trotted over and took up the digging.

Suddenly the dog froze and bounded out of the hole. He took Harry's sleeve in his teeth and pulled him away. "What is it? What is it?" He tugged free of his godfather, slid into the hole and dug until his hand clenched around something warm and squishy. He fell back with a scream.

There lay his uncle, or the mass of meat that _was_ his uncle. The face wasn't recognizable at all, skin gone and broken bone protruding through pulped meat. His stomach roiled, and Harry felt like barfing was imminent. His side burned. The stench of carrion hit him and buzzing flies rang in his ears. Vernon's eyeballs were gone, devoured, but they would have been glazed and unseeing like Dudley's, like Cedric's…

" _Kill the spare!"_

"Harry I…" The Headmaster approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Allow me." He stepped in front and waved his wand at the mess.

Harry took several deep breaths and wiped his hands clean on the scraggly grass. "No," he swallowed, "I'm not a coward." Sirius whined beside him. He got back to his feet and adjusted his glasses by habit before realizing he didn't have to. After so long with his regular round ones these new ones felt strange, especially when magically fastened to his face. A fall hadn't bumped them.

"Never that—"

"I need to face this." Harry limped toward the mess the Headmaster had uncovered.

His dead relatives. Dead by magic, just as they'd feared. Voldemort and his death eaters taking out their tempers on his relatives, three harmless, helpless muggles who would have been left alone if not for him.

"It is not your fault," Dumbledore soothed. Padfoot gently nuzzled his hand.

Harry nodded but said nothing. Part of his guilt was from the lack of guilt. He tried to feel sorrow for the deaths of his last blood relatives but his heart was full of the same numbness his head had been in battle. Cedric's death—he had felt that. Still did. The Dursleys, for all he'd known them so much of life, didn't bring any pain from their loss. He even felt vaguely, horribly relieved. No more Number Four Privet Drive; no more spiteful neatness from his aunt; no more Dudley and his gang; no more bellowing uncle. They were gone in a way Harry hadn't imagined they'd ever be.

Harry felt Vernon would drive up in a new car to show off. Petunia would throw an epic fit at the state of her house and the three piles of bloody meat in the crater. Dudley and his gang would march up with hands balled into fists. He was seeing, smelling, hearing reality but it didn't sink in.

Privet Drive echoed with silence.

"This is not your fault," the Headmaster repeated.

"Without me, the death eaters wouldn't have come." Harry stated it like fact. "Voldemort wouldn't have come."

"Without you the Dursleys would not have enjoyed the protection of the blood wards. Wards that should have stood against even Voldemort at the height of his power. Tell me, what happened just before Tom and his people arrived?"

Harry stared at the rubble of the Dursley house. "Dudley was just lying there. Blank. Dead. But he breathed. Vernon shouted at me and—" What did she say? "Petunia said I was no longer welcome and they threw me out."

The headmaster's attention was riveted on him. "Petunia specifically _said_ you were no longer welcome?"

"Yeah, that this was no longer my home and I was no longer family." Harry scoffed, "As if I ever was."

"Ahhh." The headmaster's sigh was a pained one, but knowing. "The blood wards required two things to work: firstly, you had to accept Number 4 Privet Drive as your home. Secondly, and of equal importance, the Dursleys had to grant you houseroom of their own free will. Petunia, in verbally casting you out, broke the blood wards protecting all her family."

"But she didn't know…" Harry trailed off at the grave look the headmaster gave him. "Did she?" If Voldemort had demanded him, his aunt would have traded him for a loaf of moldy bread…but at the price of her family's life?"

"Many people have fatal flaws Harry. Petunia has always been crippled by the vice of spite. I had hoped the pain of her sister's death would drain her hate and explained carefully the most vital importance of the blood wards to counter any foolishness. Alas, her spite cost her dearly." The headmaster stared at the lumps of rotting meat, festooned with flies, with more sorrow than Harry could muster. He turned to his fallen Firebolt, trailing a hand up the largest crack of his broken broom. A quick tug freed it. Twigs fell like kindling. Even this, a bunch of sticks given by his godfather, he mourned more than them.

A bark caught his attention and Harry stepped around his uncle's corpse. Snuffles was dragging out a broken wooden box—no, the remains of his trunk. Trapped in the cupboard beneath the stairs, it had held up better than anything else in the house. The trunk itself split in two pieces as soon as his godfather drew it out, spilling torn parchment and broken quills everywhere. In the wreckage was a familiar album. He dropped the broom-shaft and fell to his knees by his most precious gift. The sneakoscope Ron gave him squeaked pitifully at the lingering dark magic. With careful hands, Harry flipped through the photo album. A scar here. A burn there. But the pictures had been spared.

There were no pictures of his relatives, just as his relatives never had any pictures of him. Harry closed the photo album and met the stare of the grim-like dog. "Sirius."

The dog tilted his head, questioning.

"Anyplace I can practice shooting?"

* * *

Harry stood, feet shoulder-width, offering the smallest profile possible, and raised his weapon to the target. With deep steady breaths and a steady finger he squeezed (not pulled) the trigger.

A quiet pop echoed in the abandoned shooting range and a bullet hit almost dead-center on the parchment copy. Harry smiled. Ron laughed aloud, "Right in the shnoze."

"Don't be silly Ron, he doesn't have one," Hermione said. She mimicked the proper stance and took her own shot at the picture thirty feet away, just missing an eyeball. "This is an excellent idea. Very therapeutic." She glanced at Harry, "Everyone's aim has drastically improved from the old bulls-eye targets."

"And we get to shoot Voldemort." Harry fired off a couple more shots. Now Tom Riddle combined lipless old man with gap-toothed kid. Harry snickered. The snicker died as he remembered that night. "We need to learn to shoot faster and in a fight. He won't be giving us time to find our stance and aim carefully."

"True, but muscle memory is important. Perhaps exercise prior to target practice would simulate the exertion of a fight?" Hermione said.

Harry glanced toward the setting sun and laid his gun down. "We can try. Come on." He began the warm-ups that Oliver had drilled on the Quiddich field. Ron joined him a moment later.

"I didn't mean now," Hermione grumbled, but followed them.

Harry lead his friends around the edge of the former target range, where forest growth steadily invaded. They dodging and ducked around thorny bushes and vines and scrambled through the field of thick grass. Oliver's crazy schedule and the Tri-Wizarding tournament served him well. Harry barely had the chance to get out of shape. Ron was holding up even better; he'd been training for the keeper position over the summer. Behind them, Hermione's face flushed darker and sweat plastered her wild, bushy hair against her face. "I think…we should ask…about Auror…exercises."

"This is better." Harry charged toward a bench, threw himself into a slide and scrambled out from beneath the rotten wood. None of his fights had involved any kind of martial arts, muggle or wizard, but they all had lots of frantic dodging and more scrambling through dirt.

Hermione didn't have breath to argue.

They made two loops around the target range before Harry would need Voldemort's wand pressed to his head to do another. "Race you." He forced himself to sprint toward his gun. Ron picked up his pace. Hermione might have sworn; Harry was too far away to hear.

By the time he halted at the old stand and picked up his gun, every muscle in his body was twitching. "Mate…you look…like you've gone…another round with death eaters." Ron said. He stumbled to a stop and picked up his own gun.

Hermione joined them moments later, looking even worse, but she had breath enough to shout, "Safety." Harry's hands trembled, but he kept the muzzle far from anyone living. He was panting like a bellows but forced his stiffening legs into position. With blood still drumming in his ears, he squeezed out three more shots.

Only one hit the target this time, though Voldemort now sported a gap at the corner of his mouth. "More practice," he panted.

"Always need…more practice," Ron grumbled. His next shots missed completely. "Be…better shot…with Snape's face here."

"We won't…encounter Professor…on the opposite side of the battlefield," Hermione admonished.

"Bugger that. Slimy sniveling death eater. Look at all the other profs…after us. Lockhart, Quirrel, Crouch Jr? Snape's just buying his time. Not a squeaky-clean—"

Several more shots rang out from Harry's gun. In the silence, he said, "We should…exercise more often. It's good. More like a real fight."

Hermione, who had always been more comfortable in the library than the field, nodded in agreement.

"What about that death eater detection spell?"

"All theoretical unfortunately," said Hermione, putting another couple of bullets in Voldemort's face now that her hands weren't shaking. "An enchanted object that touched the skin at all times would be best. Knowing an actual spell would be a nice backup. Unfortunately it isn't as though anyone has a dark mark we can study."

"Could use Snape." Ron said before firing. He winced, covering an ear. "Silencing charms are wearing off."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"I said—" he saw her teasing grin, "Oh bugger off. That's the last round for me."

"We'll have to get Remus or Sirius renew them before next time," Harry said, his last shot sounding unusually loud as well. "Enough for now."

Hermione nodded, "I've got to get back or my parents will worry."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to have your own broom," Harry mused, "Or get a little better at flying one just in case. None of us know how to apparate worth anything—"

"—something else we should learn as soon as possible," said Hermione. "You won't always have portkeys."

Harry winced at the reminder, "—and if Voldemort did take over next Tuesday we'd be stuck with broom travel."

Scowling, she scrambled for a counter-argument that would not require mounting a cleaning implement and shooting hundreds of feet off the ground. "Animagi."

"Would take longer and school brooms can fly faster than most birds," Ron said.

"I don't need to race."

"Speed could save your life," Harry said. One reason he justified buying a Nimbus 2001. Not quite the Firebolt—out of his and Sirius's price range now—but with both the Firebolt and the Nimbus 2002 released, his new broom hadn't come with too many zeros on the price tag.

She huffed, "Point taken. Next Diagon trip I will look at the brooms. As soon as our silencers are re-applied we should practice with moving targets anyway. Most death eaters won't be stupid enough to stand still."

"I dunno…" Ron said.

A soft crack echoed through the shooting range. Then another, then another in rapid session. A sound heralding the beginning of nightmares.

Harry didn't hesitate. "On the brooms."

"Speak of the bloody dark lord," Ron cursed.

Reaching into his potion bag, Harry flung one vial at the appearing death eaters. The glass bottle arced through curse-laden air. Hermione clung tight to Harry as the three took off, spells flying beneath their feet. Every curse missed the bottle which shattered on the ground, releasing heavy dark clouds of mist, rapidly engulfing everyone. The trio flew.

If Harry was learning to pack more potions, Voldemort's people had learned to fly. Three death eaters shot out of the mist. All three on Firebolts.

Harry reached for his potions only for Hermione to clasp his hand. "You fly, I'll throw."

"Hang on."

Harry flattened himself and shot like a bullet, so fast Hermione's nails dove into his gut and she couldn't throw the potion for fear of falling. Another curse grazed their clothes. Harry jerked to the other side. Hermione finally wrenched one arm away and let the potion fly.

One death eater snapped a quick curse that, by luck or skill, hit the tiny bottle. The explosion sent all three flyers head over heels. Harry was flipped off the safe cushion and leg rests. Fingers clutching the broom handle like ten vices as he fought the inexorable pull of gravity. His broom pitched forward as Hermione clung like a cat to a broken mast at sea, every hair standing on end.

As Harry tried to pull himself up, the death eaters recovered and swooped in for the kill.

"Fly Hermione! Fly now!"

"You're pitching it forward," she screamed.

"Down."

Ron swooped to the rescue, flinging another potion at the death eaters. An acid cloud distracted them but more rose from the group on the ground. They weren't the greatest fliers, but there were at least twice as many as there'd been on Privet Drive. Harry could feel the tell-tale chill of dementors.

"Hermione."

Dusting off rusty skills from four years ago, she plummeted, but it was a controlled plummet. The motion jerked Harry's grip loose. Without years of gripping brooms while flying a hundred plus miles per hour, he would have fallen. Instead, with fingers straining, he used the momentum to loop his legs around the handle. Expertly polished ebony wood hit his crotch. Ignoring the pain through sheer willpower alone, he kept his grip upside down.

"You need to fly. I haven't flown since first year," Hermione screamed. Her muscles were rigid, her arms like steel vices, her palms sweaty around the broom. The trees, which had looked like heads of broccoli from their height, rapidly swelled in size, limbs flailing in the wind like Whomping Willows.

Harry flipped them over.

"I don't mean like this." Hermione wrapped herself like an octopus around the broom. "Oh Merlin turn us back around."

"Even I can't fly this thing upside down. Climb back up behind me."

"Spell."

Harry flattened himself. A shaft of fire shot right over him. Hermione's face turned bloodless. "I'm fine down here."

Lucius Malfoy circled them like a hunting lion, lazy and confident on his Firebolt. He definitely didn't pass that sort of skill down to his son; Harry had a sinking feeling about his chances against the death eater while another person clung on his upside-down broom.

The explosion had ripped off the death eater mask, showing every arrogant feature clearly. A splatter of blood marred blond hair that whipped through the wind like a flag. This close Harry could see the gray of his eyes, like stone. Lucius Malfoy looked nothing like the targets they were aiming at. He spoke—though Harry couldn't hear him over the blood pounding in his own head—probably something about surrendering to Voldy's killing curse. His face was so mobile, so unmistakably alive, so unlike a paper target.

His drawn wand aimed unwavering at Harry's heart.

Harry drew his gun.

He felt no courage, no struggle to straighten his spine or take another step forward when everything in him said flee. Harry raised his gun with trembling human nerves and looked down the iron sights at a living person. His vision tunneled. He couldn't see the gleam of sickly green at the tip of that wand or the death eater robes flapping in the wind. Harry was focused solely on the rigid features of Lucius Malfoy's face. An enemy. An abuser. A murderer.

"Avada—"

Warm metal pressed against the flesh of his finger. His hand and arm recoiled with the gun. Bullet left barrel like a miniature bomb going off, the shock-wave reverberating through flesh. Harry's stone heart beat again. Too late. A hole appeared in the side of Malfoy's face, just beneath his eye socket. He mouthed, 'Kedavra,' but the green light died. His wand slid from slack fingers. The wizard flopped off his falling broom, both plummeting to the ground. The cold, detached part of him holstered his gun and began to fly. The other part of him beat wildly in his chest and boiled in his stomach.

"Harry! Harry?" He could feel hands again. Hermione's. Ron's. "Are you okay?"

He holstered his gun with a shaking hand. "I…" Another spell, blinding green, shot at them. Harry dodged instinctively, Ron at his side. Nausea and horror were left behind. "Fly." Lowering his voice, he added, "Grimmauld place."

Ron's pale skin was infested with sickly green and his fingers loosened around the gun he'd been carrying. Harry snatched it with seeker reflexes and handed it back, only for his friend to flinch away. "That…that's not like a killing curse. Not like a killing curse at all. Oh Merlin the back of his head."

"You might still need it. They're still after us," Harry said, offering the gun back.

Ron shook his head, all his limbs twitching worse than any exercise he could do. "Fly," Hermione said, "Come on, follow us."

Hesitantly Ron obeyed, and the trio swooped toward the first buildings. Death eaters followed, their curses slashing through windows and steel indiscriminately. In the failing light hunters and hunted were strange apparitions darting around skyscrapers. Some vanished in the concrete jungle, either through spells or using the shadows to their advantage. Harry flew almost wholly by his legs, one hand gripping Ron's gun, another around his wand.

A flash of white and black. Harry fired. A scrap of fabric fell. Three flashes of green answered.

"Keep going," Ron said. "Faster."

Harry slipped the gun in his other pocket and used the free hand to guide the broom, lowering his body for less wind-resistance. Ron was flying all-out beside him, swerving around the tops of buildings, soaring and swooping like a man possessed. On the Nimbus 2001, Hermione at his back, steering with one hand, Harry could barely keep up.

"I can't see them," Hermione reported from behind. She'd regained her seat while he'd been…distracted. "I think they've fallen back."

No one slowed down.

Skyscrapers and towers turned to town-houses. From above the rooftops looked as alike as any houses on Privet Drive but Harry had a seeker's stare. "There."

Grimmauld Place, visible only to those who knew its secret, was the only safe place left for Harry now that the blood protection was dead. They swooped through a special roof entrance—one of the details that gave away the wizard home—recently modified by Bill Weasley not to skewer those without Black blood.

Sirius's old home made Privet Drive look like a haven. Kreacher had barely touched the caked dust, mold, dirt and unidentifiable substances since his old mistress and master died, which had left a decade of grime and rust on everything. Almost as livable as the shrieking shack. Sleeping at night was a challenge at the best of times.

His godfather's presence alone made the place heaven compared to the former Dursley residence. He was there all the time and equally importantly so was the Order of the Phoenix. If anyone would believe them, if anyone would help, they would.

An old witch and wizard were gambling with cards while another, younger pair sat to the side, starting on supper. When the roof-door flew open with a shriek and a bang, the younger couple shot to their feet, a chair falling over beside a bob of pink hair. Despite robes wrapped around the chair, she had her wand pointed at Harry. So did her friend, Remus. The older duo were nearly as quick on the draw, sending game pieces and galleons flying in their haste.

Ron staggered off his broom, one unpleasant smell away from throwing up—which the house happily provided. Hermione shakily slid off, twitching like she'd been under the cruciatus curse, and embraced the floor. Harry clutched his broom a moment longer, unwilling to leave the safety of the sky. He was so messed up 'scruffy' didn't cover it. A pair of moth (and probably doxy) eaten curtains swept to the side, revealing the late Mistress Black in all her mad glory.

"Mudbloods and blood traitors in my house—"

"Silencio," the older witch bellowed.

"—filthy, disgusting—"

"Oh for Merlin's sake," the witch stalked over, shoved the curtains closed and snapped another curse to keep them that way.

"You really are who you look like?" Kingsley asked solemnly.

"Yes," Hermione said, "I swear on my magic I'm Hermione Granger."

"Whew. You three look like me after my first auror training day. Planning on joining the force?" Tonks commented.

"If I live long enough," Harry said, smiling weakly. "Already got the experience." A hole had appeared, just appeared in Malfoy's face. Harry felt like joining Ron decorating the floor.

Kingsley, a more experienced auror, asked, "What happened?"

"Death eater attack. Gun range," Harry said. He clutched Ron's weapon and his wand in white-knuckled hands.

"We will send a team to investigate," Kingsley said soothingly. He drew his wand. "Expecto Patronum," and the Lynx appeared for a moment before vanishing into the distance.

"Sir," Hermione interrupted, "My parents. can we bring them here? I don't feel safe in the muggle world anymore."

"Of course. In the meantime, I would suggest not leaving the house. Especially not so soon," Kingsley turned toward emerald flames as Dumbledore stepped through.

"Sir," Harry had no idea which sir he was addressing but someone needed to know. The Headmaster turned his way; Sirius appeared in the stairwell; Kingsley paused. Something in his tone must have attracted their attention. He didn't know why, it sounded like nothing to his ears.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead. I killed him."

* * *

 **A/N:** Loads of fanfics have Harry's first known kill be Terrace Higgs or some other token death eater and the first draft of this story followed that path. I scrapped that. Killing Lucius Malfoy has more severe repercussions—so bring it on!

Another wand vs gun moment. The gun (and Harry) won mostly on luck and Lucius's stupidity. The killing curse is deadlier but slower than an actual bullet. He would have been better off with a transfiguration spell or something. That said, if Harry had missed, or just clipped Lucius's jaw, he'd probably be dead.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your support, follows, faves and comments. They're my lifeblood right now. When we'd last left our hero, he'd just killed someone. Now, the aftermath:

 **Chapter 5**

To say Lucius Malfoy's death rippled through the wizarding world was putting it mildly.

"Expecto Patronum." A dozen phoenixes, all glowing white and ethereal, appeared before Albus Dumbledore. "Meeting now." The creatures shot away like falling stars. Seconds later someone apparated in with a crack. Harry drew wand and gun instinctively.

"Easy there Mad-Eye Jr. Just the Order," Tonks teased.

The fireplace turned green as other witches and wizards stumbled out almost on top of each other. Cracks of apparation rang like firecrackers. Light from the floo bathed Grimmauld place in a sinister glow until the house was milling with people. Some wore work uniforms, others fluffy robes which might have been the wizarding equivalent of dressing gowns.

"Order." Albus Dumbledore called, "Into the meeting room."

Everyone shuffled into the Black parlor, their casual voices a dull roar from so many people. Oliver's eyes lit up as they spotted each other but the former Gryffindor Captain had only time for a smile before he vanished with the crowd into the room.

Minutes after Harry self-reported as a murderer, the door shut, leaving him and his friends alone in the entry-way.

"Shouldn't they let Harry in?" Ron complained. He didn't sound quite like his old self, but Harry was grateful for the distraction.

"Not sure I'd want to," Harry tugged at his robes and wiped away the blood splattered on his skin but only turned blots into coppery-red smears. All that was left of Lucius Malfoy. Who was dead. No obscuring darkness, no 'he might have survived'. Harry had seen his terribly human face—no death eater mask, no snake-face protrusion out the back of his head—as he punched a hole through the man's skull.

"Well if you don't want to listen in, turn away." George and Fred each held an ear in their hands and Fred carefully threaded one ear down through a crack in the floor where it would hang from the ceiling and into the order meeting below. They both listened carefully to the other disembodied ear, though they didn't need to. Indistinct voices turned audible.

"…return to the Ministry to find out what Cornelius has learned. We shall need legal experts."

"My parents." That sounded like Tonks. "They could defend him."

"We shall certainly need their advice but until formal charges are brought up, they should not claim to be his lawyers," The Headmaster said.

The adrenaline left Harry like a pain potion wearing off. Left him without the numbness that made pulling a trigger so easy. He managed enough control over his own body to sit down before his knees turned to liquid. He wiped his hands on his trousers, but the blood stayed. He wiped harder, at his clothes, on the floor, but the blood wouldn't go away.

"That poor boy," Molly said, "Someone needs to be there for him."

"I'll go. Not like I do much good here," Sirius said.

"You should have been there with them in that muggle place," Molly complained. "Three children out alone, especially Harry who's being hunted by those horrid bastards. He could have been killed."

"Blaming will not help us now," Albus cautioned.

The door opened, and the twins quickly stashed away their invention just as Sirius climbed the stairs.

"Hey pup, it's okay." Sirius hugged him gently. Harry barely noticed. When he'd put a bullet in Malfoy's face, his heart had been a hard, stony lump in his chest. Just like with the Dursleys, buried in the horror was relief. Satisfaction. That was the worst of all. Harry clung to his godfather, but no tears fell. He had no tears for the Dursleys. He damn well wouldn't cry for Malfoy.

He didn't know how long Sirius sat beside him, but Dumbledore was suddenly in front of him where he hadn't been before. "Oh Harry, I," he paused and continued, "You should never have been forced to endure yet another battle, but I must ask you to tell me what happened?"

Like the aftermath of the Goblet of Fire Harry spilled everything. The story drained out of him like pus from an infected wound. Every word squeezed a little more out of him until he was wrung dry like a butcher's rag. He looked to the Headmaster, but the wizard wouldn't meet his eyes.

One question still burned. "Did I…am I like Voldemort?" Had he crossed a line he couldn't uncross? He'd aimed to kill, not just as a reaction or trying to defend himself. He'd used a gun, not a wand. Part of him had wanted Lucius Malfoy dead.

"Of course not." Sirius said. "No more than I am, or Remus, or your father or your mother. War made killers of us all Harry. It's what you have to do."

"A world of difference exists between the murder and a slayer in self-defense." Dumbledore added, looking a hundred years older, "Lucius Malfoy would have certainly killed you. Or worse. I am only sorry one so young was ever placed in such a position." A moment passed in silence, though Harry didn't know what the Headmaster mourned. "However, I must forbid any further practice on your part; while such skills saved your life, honing them has put you in danger. Best to stay here, in the safety of your godfather's house."

Sirius's face twisted at that, but he said nothing to the headmaster. "Come on Harry. There's something you should learn. Just in case."

* * *

Tonks stormed into Grimmauld Place angrily enough to wake Mrs. Black's portrait. The curtains burst open, revealing bulging eyes and spittle-covered lips as the magical enchantment howled in rage, "Blood Traitors—"

"Nox Vocitus." Tonks jabbed her wand at the portrait. Like most spells this one didn't do much but cursing with actual dark magic silenced Mrs. Black more effectively than any charm.

"I take it things went well?" Sirius said.

"The Ministry officially wants Harry Potter brought in for questioning regarding Lucius Malfoy's its-about-Merlin-damned-time death," Tonks snarled.

"Questioning?" Harry asked warily.

His godfather scoffed, "Like they _questioned_ me?"

"Worse. Fudge is already handing out the wanted posters to us aurors." Tonks handed them an example. It didn't have a reward below a picture of himself, but Harry was reminded of the first time he saw his godfather's face. "You should have killed his wife as well. The Malfoy gold is flowing like water and all the talk is 'poor Lucius this' and 'want justice that'. You set foot in the Ministry and they'll throw you into Azkaban before Fudge can say—" The look on Harry's face halted her rant. "Sorry…I mean…"

"It's fine." Harry shoved the rest of his breakfast away, suddenly not hungry anymore. "At least you're honest."

"You shouldn't be saying things like that, especially not where he can hear them," Mrs. Weasley admonished, brushing past to start on lunch. Errol flew in with the Daily Prophet, landing heavily on the table in a flurry of feathers and papers. The front page landed beside Harry, engulfed with a wizarding photo of himself just after he'd returned from Voldemort's resurrection—bloody, sooty, muddy, stained, wild-haired and wide-eyed. Only slightly better than Sirius's wanted posters.

Above that, bold letters declared: "Mad Murderer?" And below his lovely picture was a photo of Lucius Malfoy, dressed to pompous perfection at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. For a moment, the pictured man faced him with a restrained smile, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.

Nothing like the man who had fallen from his broom in bloody black robes.

Below was a smaller picture of Cedric Diggory, looking just as a heroic champion ought: confident, smiling, eager, handsome. Like he couldn't possibly die. And Harry thought the stories questioning his sanity were bad.

Mrs. Weasley snatched the Prophet and chucked it into the kitchen fire, "All that's good for. Rubbish. Don't need to spend another knut on that mud-raking."

The paper landed with Harry's picture staring desperately from where he knelt by Cedric's dead body. Flames licked the edges, consuming the spectators, then the dead champion until only Harry's face could be seen.

Fire devoured it.

Ron's heavy footsteps snapped Harry from his gloomy thoughts. His friend's eyes were on the neglected plate. "Hey mate, you gonna eat that?" Ron asked.

"No." Harry shoved the plate to his best friend, who vanished it from his sight as quickly as possible.

"Y'know, Her-mnes 'arents hve been 'alking non-stop about Australia," Ron said. "You 'uld leave. Go there with 'em. We've got brooms and wizards 've gone across the Atlantic. I've got it planned out. Well, 'mione does."

Ron pulled out a map stained by hollandaise sauce and several unidentified foodstuffs but surprisingly detailed. They would fly straight south and stop in North Africa. Then across to an island off the massive continent. A flight to India. Another one to a mass of islands and finally to Australia. Harry had never really envisioned running away—well, maybe once or twice before Hogwarts—but it was another thing to see a detailed, drawn plan for fleeing. Despite Ron's words, Hermione clearly had a lot of help from him and his inner encyclopedia of broom and quidditch related trivia. It looked doable.

Fly away free as a bird.

After the graveyard, and the fight on Privet Drive and the gun range and all the other fights, years of them. Harry felt the phantom exhaustion from so many fights settle into his bones. And this was only the beginning.

"Thanks Ron," he smiled wanly, "I'll keep it in mind."

"No one would blame you, not with all this." Ron waved a hand around, nearly knocking over his own drink.

"Seconds dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked hopefully.

"Maybe later." Harry didn't feel hungry. He walked out of the living room only to nearly run into Hermione, or the book-stack his other best friend was shielded behind. Sirius stopped her in time.

"Hey pup," Sirius gave him a tired grin.

"Not a pup anymore," Harry said.

"Oh Harry," Hermione lowered the stack just enough to peek over it, "I've been doing a little light reading on trials."

Harry glanced from the dozen-book high stack to the black bags under her eyes, "Thanks." Really, he didn't deserve the friends he had.

"Mum and dad helped too," she said. "I think we've got a pretty strong case, especially since there is no proof you killed anyone, and Malfoy is a murdering death eater. There's something in here on the use of pensieves—"

"And I can't believe I'm the responsible one here, but you need to eat," Sirius said. "I'll bring your parents down once they wake up. Go fuel your brain." He turned to Harry, "You done eating?"

"Yeah."

"Good, lets head to the La-Bor-A-Tory."

"You've been watching too many muggle cartoons." Harry's voice dropped, "But the mandrake leaf isn't ready?"

"I know. You might have to smuggle the separate ingredients in rather than the whole potion. There are ways. Unpleasant ways but," Sirius shrugged. "Come on. Time to practice potions."

Harry and Sirius traded sneers with Snape as they passed each other in the doorway of the only potions laboratory the Blacks had. "Even this abysmal hovel is wasted on the likes of you."

"But it suits you perfectly."

The Blacks didn't have a torture room in the house like Harry had first thought. Such a thing would have been too easy to find. Instead, the potions room held a lot of use that most laboratories never saw. Aside from the set-ups Snape and Sirius had there was no equipment for working on potions.

"Never did produce a lot of potioneers," Sirius commented, covering his nose with his hand. The stench of the place was as horrific as Neville's top ten works combined. How Snape didn't fall over in a dead faint every time he entered was a miracle and a pity. Beneath the few fresh stains of potion-experiments gone wrong was a wall-to-wall coating of flaking, red-brown grime. Multiple spells and magical mess remover had barely made a dent in centuries of spilled blood.

After all, a magical laboratory was a great place to cover up suspicious smells and stains.

On another bench, opposite of Snape's, Sirius had set up phial. "The Animagus potion only gives you one dose and has to be tailored for you," Sirius said, "So lucky you, no smuggling a cauldron in. You might have to do the mixing in Azkaban though, which means smuggling in the separated ingredients and knowing how to put them together."

Harry winced, "I'm gonna have to…but won't they search me?"

"Oh sure, they'll use scanning spells but there are magical ways to beat magic. If you're good and lucky and they stick to the trial date they said, you won't have to. You'll be tried on August 12th. The next full moon is on August 10th. Still, it won't hurt to practice between now and then, just in case."

Harry nodded. The first thing Sirius had done was gone through the steps to the Animagus transformation. Even for a magical process it made no sense—relying on the phases of the moon, weather and a spit-wad of mandrake leaf. But Sirius had done it and the skill would be invaluable if his defense fell through at the Ministry. Theoretically, he could even complete the process before the trial.

But in theory—as Mrs. Granger always said—everything works.

"I lost count how many times your dad and I swallowed that stupid leaf. Peter," Sirius spat, "He was even worse. Had to gather the potion ingredients ourselves too. They aren't super-rare or illegal but ordering mandrake leaves and undisturbed dew and a death's-head chrysalis at the apothecary is a mite suspicious. They have to report that."

Harry had been extraordinarily lucky when a visible full moon appeared not a day after he'd shot Malfoy. His trial was two days after the next full moon. That gave him one chance to become an Animagus before he went to the ministry, which would be the best option. If the next full moon wasn't cloudy. If a storm appeared the day after. If he didn't mess anything up. Otherwise, he might be able to sneak another set of ingredients in—if he could survive a month in Azkaban.

"Why do I care about legalities?" he asked, but yanked a hair out of his scalp, spat on a mandrake leaf, added the chrysalis and poured a tablespoon of undisturbed dew in a little glass vial. Because of the way some of the ingredients had to be prepared, the Animagus potion couldn't truly be practiced beforehand. The mandrake leaf had to be soaked in your mouth for a month. The empty phial had to be struck with the light of the second full moon, when you spat the mandrake leaf into it. And only the lightning of a storm (which turned the potion blood red) showed whether you got it right after all that work. Many people messed up their first potion.

Harry couldn't afford that.

He had only had three of all the ingredients needed correctly prepared. With a potion so finicky, he didn't even know if he was getting it right. But he would have one chance with the right ingredients. If the Aurors didn't find them on him…

His godfather slapped a bulbous thing on the table. "Smugglers vial," Sirius said. "Guaranteed anti-magic. They'd have to search you by hand and trust me, the Aurors won't search a minor where you're storing this. Hell, they didn't search me up there. Pity I didn't have the time to prepare."

Harry winced. It looked—small for what it would be containing and very big for where it would be going. "That's gonna fit?"

"Yeah. I bought two sizes." He uncapped the first to reveal the second, like one of those Russian dolls. "So if you can make the potion and not mess it up, you get to use the smaller one. If you mess up before the hearing or the potion isn't completed, you smuggle the ingredients in separate in this bigger one."

Harry never had such motivation to get a potion right.

"Well, the good thing is you won't need your wand to stir," Sirius said. "Speaking of, you might also need to learn the spell windlessly, if you're going to prepare this in Azkaban."

"That's possible?" Harry asked.

"Sure. You've done accidental magic before. Besides, you don't think the wand was the first thing wizards invented, do you? Loads of wizards have done magic for thousands of years before someone caught onto the idea of a shaft of wood being better."

"Oh." Harry considered this, "Then why don't we learn wandless magic now?"

"Wanded magic is easier. Ridiculously easier. Like the difference between doing math in your head or having one of those muggle whatcha-call-its? Com-cal-cul-laters do it for you. Without wands, it would take a magical genius to manage the least bit of transfiguration. Nah, it's not practical. But you might be able to learn a spell or two without a wand. After the potion."

* * *

As much as Hermione and Remus and half the order were building up his defense and the Tonks were building his case, he could still go to Azkaban. True, there wasn't a standard punishment for a wizard killing another wizard with a gun, but the wizarding prison loomed as a possibility.

One the remaining Malfoys and Voldemort hoped for.

Narcissa Malfoy had claimed her husband's entire fortune. When Harry asked why Sirius hadn't tried, his godfather laughed. ("Of course I can't claim it Harry, even if I was a free man. I'm not Lucy's brother and he hasn't willed me a dirty knut.") She also held all his political positions. Unlike Lucius, she obviously wanted revenge. Thinly—or not so thinly—disguising it as justice held both public and government appeal.

"Are there any laws about guns?" Ron asked, flipping through a library book.

"Unfortunately, yes," Mrs. Tonks said, "There is one. The wizarding world is riddled with little bits of bigoted legalese. One of these is that any muggle who uses a gun for any reason against a wizard is sentenced to death. That is wizarding law."

"But that isn't fair, what about self-defense?" Hermione said.

Mrs. Tonks smile was bitter, "Did you know, Hermione, that in the past wizards could legally hunt muggles as muggles might hunt foxes."

Hermione nodded, jaw tight.

"There was a woman who shot and killed such a wizard who had been hunting her husband and had wounded him. She killed one murderer to protect her entire family. Under that law she was still sentenced to death."

"That's barbaric." Both Grangers looked to Hermione, then to the other wizards and witches with new eyes.

"Yes, it is. And though hunting sentient and sapient beings is illegal, that law is one of many yet to be repealed. Pureblood bigotry is still so entrenched in our society. Over centuries of fighting, we have repealed almost all the laws discriminating against muggleborns but we still have so much further to go. Studying law, that was what first really turned me against the beliefs of my family. Stories like that are a disgusting reality."

"Indeed," said the Headmaster, "And the fight is on-going. Several times I have had to halt legislation which would have kept those of wholly muggle ancestry from my school, in spite of tradition and the wishes of three of the four founders. Slytherin's prejudice lives on, long after his loss and death."

"Not to be a bastard about it, but what does that mean for Harry?" Ron asked.

"Since you're a wizard, it shouldn't apply." Mrs. Tonks explained. "They would have to prove you were a muggle but expect them to try and use that law anyway and to mis-quote it as 'a person who uses a gun'."

"But they can't, can they?" Harry asked.

"Not legally," Mr. Tonks reassured.

It was hollow reassurance. Fudge and Narcissa had mustered the Ministry against him. Albus Dumbledore spent more time helping them, but as Hermione pointed out he only had the time because he was no longer Chief Whatever of the Wizencourt. Harry spent less time researching old trials on underage wizards and more time with his godfather. If the worst happened, there was only one person in the world who could help him:

The one person who escaped Azkaban before.

"If you have to do this in Azkaban, without a wand, you'd better get it right the first time. Otherwise," his voice grew dark, "You die."

"Story of my life," Harry said.

"Of course, when you're in Azkaban death doesn't sound so bad."

Harry wondered if his godfather had tried to kill himself in there. Twelve years in prison? Surrounded by dementors. Harry shuddered. He would've have been shocked if Sirius hadn't.

As if realizing he'd spoken to a teenager, Sirius cleared his throat. "Anyway, try again. Hand on heart."

Harry had long mastered the spell with his wand but without it, calculus in his head was easier. He was getting better. He could make his hand light up and he'd made sparks fall from his fingers by snapping them, but those were 'kiddie spells' any child could learn with enough focus. The Animagus spell? He hadn't managed so much as a flicker of magic.

And he'd have to do it every day from the time he spat out the mandrake leaf to the time a lightning storm showed up…

"And once you get that shocker, swallow the potion."

Harry groaned.

"Hey, I've got to get my horrible puns in now."

Harry winced.

"Sorry kiddo." Putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, Sirius added, "I really hope it doesn't come to this. No one deserves Azkaban for giving Lucius Malfoy what he deserved—especially not you. Believe me; he's got a lot of innocent blood on his hands."

Harry wiped the mess of another failed potion off. "That's okay. You don't have to tip-toe around me. Tonks and Hermione and Remus and everyone have been great: coaching me on what to say and the laws and the Headmaster is defending me…" he trailed off, staring at the stains on his pants. "They say I'm going to win; they reassure me."

"…But you're the only one taking this trial realistically."

* * *

 **A/N:** I love animagi. So does everyone else, making the process about the biggest cliché in the fandom, so I'm trying to stick to canon. According to HP Wiki and Pottermore, the mandrake leaf potion full moon spell every sunset way is the canon Animagus transformation. The skill itself also isn't so useful unless a wizard is about to be thrown into prison. Then it's invaluable—if Harry doesn't get a lion.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed. Here's the next installment, touching on what has to be the most important element of summer training (since so many stories have one).

Enjoy!

 **Chapter 6**

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but couldn't we get some potion ingredients?" Harry asked from the fitting stool. Not that he'd have room for another potion.

"Later dear, now what about this color," A quick switching spell traded one indistinguishable shade of green for another. Dedalus Diggle leaned back to squint at his handiwork while Emmeline Vance shook her head. "Better than the first but not quite right, I agree," said Diggle.

"If I may lady and gentlewizards?" the tailor drew his wand. Harry kept his hand on it. "Perhaps an exact match for the eyes," his wand moved in a series of practiced twitches and the robes must have changed color again by the oohing and aahing of his escort.

"Yes, that will do nicely. Gold or silver embroidering?"

"Not silver," Harry said. "I'll look like a Slytherin."

"Nothing wrong with that," The tailor pointed out sternly. "I was in the Slytherin house I'll have you know."

Harry glanced back and the man shrank away a little. "And what do you think of Voldemort?"

Three people flinched. "Harry," Emmeline shook her head and flicked her wand so that the words 'not here' appeared above and behind the tailor's head.

"Mr. Potter please, allow me do my job."

"Is there something wrong with the name? If he's not back there shouldn't be anything to fear. Anyway it's just a name."

"It is not just a name," the tailor said, fumbling with a re-sizing spell which transformed the green robes—the exact shade of Harry's eyes—into a smoky sort of cloak like something Voldemort would wear. "Oh dear, a moment." Another spell corrected them and a third had them fit Harry perfectly well. "It's not just a name. It's all the dark days when a single slip of the tongue, one wrong word and you and your family would never be heard from again. Don't say it like it's anything less."

Harry met the tailor's stare, "It wouldn't be that way if everyone stood up instead of burying their heads in the sand."

"Lots of people did stand up to him," the tailor snapped back. "My husband for one—." The older man broke off and went back to his work. "—and look where that got him."

The silence stretched from disquieting to uncomfortable to boring. Harry tried not to squirm as the tailor stitched yet another set of embroidery on the robes. "Is this really necessary?"

"A good impression vital. You'll need every advantage you can get, especially since Malfoy was much beloved among the Wizengameot for his generous donations to their pockets," said Diggle.

"But a good impression can overcome all that," Harry said skeptically.

"You mean it's true! You—" The tailor shut his mouth abruptly and continued his work.

Harry glanced down again where the man was spelling gold embroidery on the robes. "What's true?"

The needle paused. Harry's grip on his wand tightened and he dearly wished for his gun, as much as he'd abhorred the thing for the trouble it got him in. Finally the tailor spoke, "Nothing, nothing." He began the embroidery again, though one of the designs looked strange.

"Stop that, no runes." Vance cast a spell, unraveling some of the stitching.

"What's true?" Harry asked again.

"Merely speculation as to Mr. Malfoy's untimely demise," the tailor said. After finishing off the cuffs of the robes he added, "The Malfoys have been generous patrons of many places."

"I assume generosity from another quarter won't impact your work," Vance said pointedly.

The tailor shrugged, "Gold is gold."

Harry opened his mouth but Vance cast a silencing spell. His teeth clacked. Complaints stifled, the young wizard searched the finest tailoring in the magical world for a clock. The owner had none. He had no idea why clothes shopping was enjoyable for anyone because right now he'd rather be out shooting—

—face going slack like Cedric's, eyes unseeing as he fell—

A full-body jerk, as though he'd been hit with a stinging hex, brought Harry back. He was in the shop, surrounded by robes, many of them in dark colors. He turned away, looking at the ones done in gold and white and un-death eater shades. Despite the robes and warmth of the shop, he felt the chill of the graveyard. Harry placed a hand to his chest but he didn't know what he was checking for.

"Harry?"

The silencing spell vanished.

"I'm fine." Harry said automatically.

"Remember, straight posture, confident but not arrogant," Diggle continued reciting the many things he had to do to avoid being hauled off to Azkaban.

"Yes I know, be a perfect little swot," he said. And secretly become an animagus if the ass-kissing and evidence didn't work. The full moon was tonight. His trial the next day. That would be cutting it close.

"If you walk into the wizengamot in those rags your relatives called clothes the judges will chuck you into Azkaban," Vance said.

"Aren't my school robes good enough?"

Everyone stared at him in disbelief. The tailor looked as though he'd have kneeled over from another word.

The order members exchanged glances, "Best to go with the best," Vance said.

Harry wondered how hopeful they really felt about his chances. "Because if I dress like Malfoy they'll let me off killing him," he said. The tailor froze, Diggle uncharacteristically swore but Harry couldn't, wouldn't, keep silent. "Oh wait, it worked so well for Malfoy. He wore fancy clothes and donated lots of gold and could kill whoever he wanted."

"How dare you." The tailor stood again, dark face darkening further. "How dare you slander a man you murdered."

"He was a death eater—"

"—who only took the Dark Mark under the Imperious curse."

"You believe that," Harry stared the man dead in the eye. "You believe the only reason Malfoy ever supported Voldemort and all his 'let's murder the muggleborn' shite," the tailor flinched, "Was because he was under the imperious curse?"

Taking a deep breath to restrain his anger, the wizard said. "Master Malfoy was not one to bow to anyone else."

Harry might have believed that excuse, a better one than saying Lucius was a saint who never had a bad word against the muggleborn, but no more. "I saw him. That night in the graveyard when Voldemort returned." The proprietor flinched again. "I saw Lucius Malfoy grovel in the dirt like a dog, begging to kiss his oh so great Lord's _feet_."

"I will not listen to this slander. As though you would have done anything else?"

"Yes." Harry said with deadly softness. "I fought him. When he put the imperious curse on me, when he put the cruciatus curse on me, I fought him."

Silence reigned in the shop. Face shiny with sweat, the tailor waved his needles and thread away. "Your robes are done," he said coldly, "Now give me my gold and never come back."

They left the store in a great bustle, Diggle waving his wand over the handsome robes to make certain they had not been cursed. Vance shook her head, "I cannot imagine this is easy for you but please keep a civil tongue in your head. Yelling like that won't save you in the court."

"Will anything save me in the great court of spineless bunch of Malfoy arse-lickers?"

"Let's head to the optometrist," Vance interrupted, "Hopefully they will be a little better."

"The what?" Diggle asked.

"The eye-doctor."

"Oh, the occularmancy master."

"Yes, that," Harry said. They headed toward a shop decorated with so many eyes and glasses one didn't need to read the sign to know what it was. Hopefully this shop would have a clock.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, how delightful?" The witch at the Eye Emporium did not sound delighted as much as queasy. Harry had seen more genuine smiles on his Aunt Petunia…before her face was turned into meat—

Don't think about it.

"Mr. Potter wishes to know about your eye-correction services."

"Ah, well um there would be a number of tests to go through, you know. To determine the nature of the problem. Depending on the cause of…err Mr. Potter's eye problems. This will only take a few spells. Some problems can be corrected with a mere potion; others require a certain type of enchantment and still others…" She shrugged, "Well if I found the cure for aging eye problems you would be making your appointment, not your visit," her feeble chuckle trailed off.

"You'll cast these spells on my eyes?" Harry asked.

"Yes, yes um Mr. Potter, just sit right down here."

He glanced at her wand warily, which was twitching worse than the tailor's, "Couldn't one of them cast the spells?"

She gave him an affronted look, though had enough self-control not to say the first three things that came to mind. "I'm not about to give away all my trade secrets. Besides these are healing charms I cast as a matter of routine. Your bodyguards over there have probably never cast these spells in their lives. Would you like to be their test dummy?"

Harry shut his mouth but still regarded her with suspicion, "What is your problem with me?"

"Absolutely nothing Mr. Potter," she lied. "Don't blink."

All wands were drawn as the witch cast her spells and Harry was sure she'd fumble them like the tailor and hex his eyes right out of his head. She didn't. Her hand and wand moved with the surety of having cast them a thousand times before. Results floated in the air as incomprehensible lettering known only to healers and arithmancers.

"Well it appears you have some hereditary eye-problems, though they are not bad, not bad at all really. You've kept up a good diet I see. Lots of fruits and vegetables at home, especially the vegetables. Good, good, nice to see your guardians cared enough about your health. Not enough of that kind of care."

Harry's temper trembled like a rattlesnake. The Dursleys hadn't given a damn about him but they would never deny their son a single sweet and turned a blind eye to the 'yucky greens' Dudley shoved on Harry's plate. He'd eaten it all, however mucky or foul tasting. Back then, Harry always cleaned his plate—and sometimes the floor too. The Dursleys would roll in their graves if they could hear the witch. That helped him choke back his first three responses.

"We have come leaps and bounds in magical eye correction in the last decade and a half. I believe, given this optimal eye-care, Mr. Potter's sight trouble can be tamed with a simple potion." She pulled out a small vial. "Three drops a day in each eye over the course of ten days should do the trick along with a couple of healing spells I can perform right now. And these services can be purchased for a special price."

"Of course they can," said Vance. "What is the special price?"

"Two hundred and ninety-nine galleons for both the healing spells and the potion," the witch rattled off with a smile.

"Preposterous. We can do the healing spells ourselves," Diggle said.

The witch frowned, "I would like to see you try. You'll need at least a thousand galleons to re-construct the mess if you get a twitch wrong."

"And this potion shouldn't be too difficult for Severus Snape to brew." Vance wrote down the name.

"As if that dried old bat would have brewed the Elixir of Life for his mother," the witch snapped.

"He will for us," Vance said confidently, "He is…a colleague."

The two witches scrutinized each other's words and wills. Were they reading each other's minds? Trying to put each other under the imperious curse? The eye-witch, who had never crossed wands with a death eater, bent first. "Two fifty-nine."

"One fifty-nine," Vance fired back.

Diggle looked a little worried now, "Um Vance, we d—" His partner silenced him with a wave of her wand.

"I wouldn't cast the healing spells alone at that price. Go to Saint Mungo's and barter with them," the witch said.

"We shall. No doubt we can get Mr. Potter some gold-plated glasses with extra enchantments of course—eye-correcting magic, impervious charms, something to keep them sticking to his face unless he takes them off," Vance mused.

The witch's gaze darted between him, the potion and a rack of glasses with very large price tags. "I suppose a customer who bought more than a hundred galleons of merchandise could get a discount," she offered.

Harry left with a new pair of glasses, three healing spells cast on his eyes and an almost full vial of eye-correcting potion. The witch had warmed up to him slightly, most likely because the eye-correcting potion had cost almost as much as his fancy robes. The glasses, which were self-correcting, were only less expensive because of the discount. He'd put his foot down on the gold-plating though.

"Can we shop for something important now?"

"Haircut first," said Diggle.

"It won't work," Harry prophesied.

"We'll see."

If his hair grew long, it looked like a porcupine's backside. Short and his ears stuck out. Normal length and it looked like a crow's nest. His aun—Petunia had fought with it for over a decade. Diggle patted his shoulder reassuringly as they were welcomed into what looked like an old-fashioned barber shop from the telly. "And how may we serve you today?" A wizard asked.

Vance pointed a finger to Harry's hair, "Fix this."

"Of course." One of the professionals sat him down and began sheering locks off, grumbling as the shorter hair refused to behave. "Uh, that one never fails. Here, drink this."

Harry looked warily at the potion, "Hair re-growth, just a sip should do," said Diggle.

His hair transformed into a porcupine's backside and she hacked it with scissors. "Sleek Easy," she held out an expectant hand. Someone gave her another potion which she slathered liberally in his hair.

"There, that's the best I can do," said the witch, turning Harry to face the mirror.

They'd lengthened his hair even more and poured half a bottle of the sleek-easy but the result looked like a proper pureblood ponytail.

"Expensive stuff this sleek-easy," remarked Diggle.

"Oh that's Malfoy's special sleek-easy, comes from their family wool—" he broke off suddenly, side-eyeing Harry before looking away. Silence slowly spread through the listeners.

"Anything else we need?" Harry asked in the hush.

"No, I think that's all. Let's get you back. The hearing is tomorrow," Vance sadly took his arm and paid the shop-keepers while Diggle vanished all of Harry's shorn hair, including the handful a witch tried to sneak away.

"None of that if you will, for shame."

The proprietor flushed as they left.

"What was that about?" Harry asked once they were out of hearing range.

"Probably as a polyjuice potion ingredient," Vance said.

Harry blanched, imagining a dozen copies of himself running around, murdering innocent people and laughing as he was thrown into Azkaban in their place. "Do you think he was a death eater?"

Diggle flushed, "I don't think that's why he was interested in your hair." Before Harry could ask why, he was pushed him forward, "Time to leave the alley now."

Deep within the crowd Harry saw the flash of red robes. Aurors.

Harry didn't tense instinctively like he did with black robes, or draw his wand, but his caretakers noticed the solid, bright color too. Suddenly Vance and Diggle were on either side of him, trying to keep him out of sight while urging him further through the crowd. Emmeline pointed her wand at him and cast something. Harry stared at now-pale hands. "What?"

"A glamor. Nothing too powerful but hopefully with the new hair and clothes you won't be recognized," Vance whispered. "We should have done that in the beginning."

"Would have messed up the tailor's work," Diggle said. "The nearest Floo is just up ahead." Actually, the nearest floo was behind them but so were the aurors. As they drew closer their voices became audible; they were looking for him. "Don't rush, walk casually."

"Then maybe you shouldn't both be pushing me," Harry pointed out. Already he was feeling a jittery rush, not the kind associated with a Quidditch match, but with a battle about to strike. His wand was in the palm of his hand before he knew it.

"No," whispered Vance, "If we fight them you might as well ship yourself to Azkaban." They all fell silent. An auror stepped past another group of nosy shoppers and locked eyes with Vance. Diggle ran into a second Auror. Harry's wand-hand twitched.

"Pardon me," Diggle apologized to the one he ran into. Three pairs of eyes looked them over and Harry was sure the glamor had evaporated into thin air.

"Woah, watch it there. Mr. Diggle, right?" The Auror asked. "You were at Madame Bones charity," somehow the auror was shaking hands with a bewildered Diggle. "Good to see you well in these tough times."

"And yourself," Diggle began shaking hands more enthusiastically. "Gawain is it?"

"Right as rain. And this is young Williamson," he pointed to a younger Auror with a long ponytail. "And Auror Bulan, who's been around forever and a day—"

"—and has no time for larking," Auror Bulan interrupted before facing them. "You seen Harry Potter?"

Harry managed to work his throat, "I heard talk of him."

Diggle nodded excitedly and took Williamson's hand in an enthusiastic shake. "Yes, somewhere in the alley they say, why I remember the first time I ran into him like it was yesterday. It was in the muggle world and I was out—"

"Thank you Mr…Diggen," Williamson tried to reclaim her hand, "But we are very busy."

"Tertio Oculus." Bulan cast and the glowing shape of a third eye opened on her forehead, looking straight at them. "He's wearing glamor."

Gawain's friendly smile never faltered, but the friendly hand he had on Diggle's shoulder was suddenly firm enough to hold his wand-arm. "Now calm down, innocent is innocent until proven guilty and innocent people don't need to fight."

Bulan was glaring at Williamson, but the third eye stared steadily at her quarry, "Priori incantum doesn't catch everything." She kept her wand aimed unwaveringly at Harry. "Gawain, quit gawping and secure them. You lot, keep your wands where they are."

Too late. Harry, as twitchy as the auror facing him, was already raising his wand at the trio and said the first spell he could think of. "Expelliarmus."

"Catenus Totalus." The twitchy auror cast before Harry's spell could reach her. Harry flattened himself as chains appeared from her wand, manacles gaping open like mouths. The flying metal crashing into his shoulder. One manacle bit down. His own spell sent wands flying everywhere, including Vance and Diggle's wands. Oops.

Bulan drew a second wand from some inner holster and jabbed it at the ground beneath their feet, transforming cobblestone into quicksand. Harry jumped wildly out, getting only a shoe stuck when she turned it back to stone. Vance was even quicker, jumping clear away, but the distraction had given the aurors enough time to seize their wands.

"Expulso," Williamson cast.

"No." Gawain, struggling with Diggle, froze at a critical moment.

Harry dodged that one more easily. A nearby wizard shrieked as he was flung into several more people and the crowd, already drawing away, turned into a panicked mob. Harry's aim was better. "Petrificus Totalus."

Bulan flicked the spell away. Williamson smirked. "Ikle firstie spells won't—"

"Stelius," Vance cast. Williamson let out a forceful sneeze, swore and tried to undo the hex, only for her concentration to be blown away by another sneeze. Diggle, finally freed from Gawain who was laying bound on the ground, added a blinding spell.

Now it was three wands against one. Bulan cast another spell, but it wasn't aimed at them. Vance grabbed Harry's other arm, "They've called for backup, we need to go."

The ropes fell away from Gawain, who stood with wand drawn, "Apologies. Colloshoo."

Their shoes stuck to the ground but Harry yanked his foot free of his last shoe and ran. Diggle and Vance were quick to follow. Luckily they didn't have to push their way through a crowd. Unluckily, that gave the aurors clear aim.

"It's locked. Down."

The three ducked a nasty fire curse from an auror and ran through the smoldering wreckage of the door. No one was there, but a fire sparked with the faintest tinge of green. Harry took a handful of powder to throw into the fire. Diggle leaned over, "Fairylace Cottage."

"Fairylace Cottage," Harry repeated into the green flames as the aurors stepped into the abandoned shop.

They got a brief glimpse of Vance's home, which looked like a steadily expanding piece of artwork, before they took her private floo to Grimmauld place. "Hurry, if they follow us here…" with a mumbled curse, Vance cast a spell, "It's set to blow soon."

Harry was the second one in, stumbling like he usually did out of the floo. He looked up to see a wand pointed at him and he automatically rolled out of the way. "Hold still, it's just me, Tonks, trying to get rid of that glamor."

"Do hold still Harry, you're messing up your hair," Vance added from behind.

He picked himself up as the glamor vanished and looked around at the gathered crowd—Albus Dumbledore, Molly, Arthur, Remus, Sirius, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley, Tonks and his friends were all waiting. "What's wrong?"

"Not if you're back, thank Merlin. Oh what a mess you're in dear." Molly fussed with his wild hair and vanished the manacle still hanging from his shoulder. Harry didn't get a chance to reply.

"They've changed the date and time of your trial," Arthur added, cleaning Harry's new robes.

"When…when is it starting?" Harry asked.

"Now."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, I put in the obligatory shopping and making him better dressed and prettier (man, I'm ending up with a lot of cliches in this story) but hey, if you're on trial for the murder of the decade, it can't hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thanks again for all your reviews, favorites and follows. We're getting to the finish line. It's time to put Harry Potter on trial.

 **Chapter 7**

"—and don't forget Isobel Thoreau's hearing of sixteen ninety-two," Hermione babbled nervously, "Oh and Dorea Black's treatise on the volatile results of mixing the dark arts. That's your best bet against the Imperious defense. Oh and—"

"I know Hermione and the Tonks helped you—" Harry began.

"Don't forget your eye potion. You might as well…" Vance gave him the recommended three drops in each eye and a shaky smile that he could see a little better without his glasses. "I'll just keep it right here, for when you get back."

Harry nodded soundlessly, barely noticing Diggle's spells vanishing the manacle and dirt. "Merlin damn it, could we not have one peaceful shopping trip. This is a disgrace." He straightened, "Well I am neither tailor nor hairdresser, but have done the best I can, now remember—"

"I'll wait," Ron interrupted, clutching two brooms in his hands, two backpacks slung over his shoulders. "Right outside. Give the word and we'll be in Australia."

"Thanks mate," Harry clasped his hands and for once Ron took after his mother and squeezed his friend tight.

"Oh Harry," Mrs. Weasley engulfed him as well, "You poor, dear thing. You shouldn't have to suffer this." She blinked away tears. "Remember you only did what you had to and if you hadn't…" She choked off and squeezed him tighter, "…that horrid man." With a few strokes of her wand, she cleaned up his robes and fixed his hair.

"You did what was necessary," Sirius said, a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I hope you don't have to follow my example but if you do, follow my other example," his godfather wrapped his arms around Harry. "You sure you don't want your pet dog to follow you?"

"No." Harry said. "Please, they'll kill you."

Sirius nodded and, in a whisper, he added, "Trust no one. Pay attention to everything. You got the potion?"

"Not yet," Harry whispered. In a louder voice, he added, "I'm just gonna freshen up."

Cursing whichever idiot had changed the time at the last minute, Harry put all the ingredients and the vial in the larger of the two anti-magic containers. Then he hid it where Sirius swore the Aurors wouldn't check, 'when they've got spells to cast.'

Finally Albus Dumbledore knocked. "We must depart." Harry, newly dressed in his fine robes, hands washed, opened the door. Beside him stood Mr. Weasley, who had the excuse of a late shift.

Harry still felt like he was going to face Voldemort again, but it wouldn't be like that. This time he wouldn't be alone. And what was the wizened-court to Voldemort? He stepped out of the fresher, still feeling like a Malfoy in fancy gold-embroidered robes, slicked hair and stylish glasses. A doll of the wizarding world's darling 'boy who lived' at last. Or a little swot. Which was the point.

Not that he wouldn't be scrubbing hair gel out as many times as it took. If he made it back to Grimmauld.

"I'm ready," Harry said.

The headmaster's hand seized his shoulder and Mr. Weasleys and they all vanished together.

When they re-appeared before the Ministry the sun was already sinking. A night trial. How long of a full moon would he have? How long would the trial last? He paused before the phone booth, placed his wand over his pounding heart, and spoke the animagus incantation toward the setting sun. Who cared if Mr. Weasley or Albus Dumbledore heard him, but hopefully the Ministry didn't. Once he was done, Mr. Weasley held out his hand for the wand, "Just in case. I'll keep it safe Harry. I promise."

Inside, a wizard was leaning over his front desk in anticipation. Behind him ministry workers mingled with reporters and folk from the street; all snapped their attention to the party of three that entered. "Wands." Said the front-desk wizard.

Arthur Weasley hesitantly handed over two wands, "I…ah…already took the liberty of…"

The wizard nodded, "Very well." He weighed both wands and handed one back to Mr. Weasley, fingering the other with some curiosity. Eleven inches. Holly. Harry itched to snatch it back. He could feel the crackle of magic on his skin but the wand didn't move. Albus Dumbledore handed his wand over, where it was weighed and given back. "All appears well. Ah…" he trailed off, staring at Harry's wand before an Auror stepped forward. Gawain.

"I shall take responsibility for that." Holly wood vanished beneath red robes, then he turned to Harry. "This way."

With the Headmaster and Mr. Weasley behind him, he followed the rumpled-looking Auror to an equally rumpled-looking partner as the crowd tried to pounce. Cameras went off, questions blurred into a babble of noise and a rotten splattered on a shield the second Auror cast. "Back you lot." She parted the crowd with the shield like a bulldozer and Harry realized this was Auror Tonks. Her hair was dark brown and limp, her voice harsh as she battled the crowd.

Harry turned away from the noise and curses to see Gawain dodge another rotten fruit. Without the exuberance that had filled the man not too long ago, he managed only a ghost of his former cheer. "At this time there are to be no interviews. He has a trial waiting. I'm certain he'll be happy to tell you everything once it's over."

"He's innocent," someone yelled.

"Put up the ministry on trial," another added. The crowd turned on itself.

With Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley's help, the four surrounded Harry all the way to the elevator and none of the fighting reached him. Cameras still went off in a flurry of light until the lift doors closed with a sharp shriek, like a rusty cell in Azkaban. Harry could smell Mr. Weasley's sweat dampening his red hair behind his ears. He could the scrape of callus against wood from Tonks and wondered who she wanted to curse. Behind him, he could feel each deep breath Gawain took as he forced calm. Albus Dumbledore reached into the pocket of his robes and took out a small pouch, filling the elevator with a scent no Azkaban cell had ever known.

"Lemon drop?"

Tonks shook her head silently. Mr. Weasley smiled weakly, "That's alright. Don't think I could stomach anything now," his stare shifted to Harry.

"I have to agree," Gawain said.

Harry's stomach wanted to third the motion but if he did go to Azkaban he probably wouldn't get a single sweet thing for a decade. "Thanks," he popped one of the candies in his mouth. The Headmaster took one as well. Surprisingly, Harry relaxed just a little. Or at least he didn't feel like a raw nerve of terror.

The doors opened. Mr. Weasley patted Harry's shoulder again. "Best of luck and don't worry." In a lower voice he added, "You did nothing wrong." Both Aurors stepped between the two and herded Harry away from Mr. Weasley, who stood unmoving, hand half-raised. Albus proceeded with Harry and his guards until Gawain cleared his throat.

"With all due respect sir, the accused is to be accompanied by Aurors alone. If you are a witness you should proceed to the witness stands. If you are a part of the defense you should meet the Tonks in the courtroom."

"Of course," Albus inclined his head slightly.

Harry glanced between the two of them but forced himself not to look back. The hallway, despite being built by wizards, could make a giant feel small and made their footsteps echo loudly as they trekked to the end. The portraits of former stern judges and ministers and other stuffy types, their eyes following him accusingly, only made things worse.

The hall ended.

Massive doors sprung open, revealing the familiar interrogation chambers he'd witnessed from the headmaster's pensieve. Like Barty Crouch Jr., both Aurors lead him to a chained chair within a cage. There was bare floor before the rows and rows of court seats, which would surround him further like living bars of a cell. Stepping through there felt like imprisonment already. Pesky things like trials and evidence were only window-dressing.

Both Gawain and Tonks hesitated. The Minister, one of many looming figures, smirked, "Let the accused step forward."

And in that moment, Harry fixed the pompous arse-licker with a glare, straightened his spine and stepped forward himself. They were trying to intimidate him: the hall and the chair and the cage and the looming seats. Just like Voldemort. Only the Minister definitely wasn't Voldemort.

Behind him, Gawain whispered to Tonks, "A bloody shame. 'e's just a kid."

In front of him, Tonks's parents smiled encouragingly, if shakily, as though they were about to start crying at any moment. Aside from the Aurors, they were alone in their sympathy. Surrounding him from all sides were fifty stern, fierce, horrified, vengeful and wrathful faces looming over him, as if they'd already made their decision without hearing a single word from him. Or from the Tonks. Dumbledore had vanished. Only the cage and chained chair awaited him. He had to draw on the same courage as in the chamber of secrets, in the forbidden forest, in the graveyard just to take his seat. Chains snapped around his limbs, fastening him tightly. Unless his animagus form was a snake and he could somehow transform now, he was totally helpless. The judges stared back in surprise: Fudge in the center, an unknown toad-faced woman to his right and a stern-faced, square-jawed witch sitting to his left. Where Fudge and the pink woman did not meet his eyes, this woman did, and gave him a nod of respect. The others stared at him as though the Polyjuice would wear off.

He felt like a spirit drifting away from his own body, unable to feel the chains or the chair, his steely spine or liquid guts. Those things did not belong to someone who felt nothing. The chamber echoed in silence. Percy Weasley cleared his throat.

"The questioning of Mr. Harry Potter regarding the…uh…lethal events of June twenty-seventh, nineteen ninety-five and the," Percy faltered a moment, "Tragic death of Mr. Lucius Malfoy may now begin. Department of Magical Law Enforcement Director Amelia Bones, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge and Undersecretary Delores Umbridge presiding."

Cornelius Fudge spoke with satisfaction, "The charges Whetherby."

Percy Weasley glanced sadly toward Harry before shuffling through the papers. "The charges," more shuffling, "Are one account of conspiracy to cause widespread panic through the wizarding world with false claims—"

Harry tried to jump to his feet, but the chains held him fast. His defenders silently motioned him to calm down. ("There are judges and Wizengamot members who would find you guilty if you came in with an undone shoelace.")

"—three accounts of resisting arrest," This time Harry held his temper, "And one account of," Percy coughed, "Murder of one Lucius Malfoy with a muggle weapon."

In the silence that followed that last charge, Madame Bones spoke. "First, we will hear the testimony of the three Aurors, whom Mr. Potter was purported to have resisted."

In an almost inaudible hiss, Harry asked, "I thought we would get to speak?"

"You will," Mr. Tonks reassured, "This is, unfortunately, procedure."

Auror Gawain moved between Harry and his accusers. A moment later Aurors Bulan and Williamson came through the door to stand with him. Madame Umbridge spoke with the satisfaction of one who could already taste victory, "Tell the court of Mr. Potter's crimes."

Harry could feel the chains dig into his flesh. He wanted nothing more than to leap away, to fight all of them if he had to, so long as he could depend on himself and not the whims of court proceedings paragraph B, section 4, while he sat helplessly.

"Well, honorable Wizengamot members," Auror Gawain spoke, "Ye see the person in question was wearing glamour—"

"A disguise," Fudge looked ready to tag on a forth charge.

"What my colleague means," Auror Bulan interrupted, "Is that we could not say who was under that glamour."

Only Madame Bones looked unruffled. Madame Umbridge looked as though she might have swallowed her father. Fudge's jaw kept opening and shutting, "…but…I mean…you're Aurors. He tried to escape from you. Just minutes ago."

"Our spells are able to detect the presence of any disguise," Auror Bulan pointed out. "It was through this means that I realized the young man in the Alley was not who they appeared. However, we were too busy attempting to apprehend the disguised person and their colleagues to undo a glamour."

"You mean to say," Umbridge spoke with saccharine sweetness, "That the ministry's finest law enforcement officers were unable to capture a child?"

"They could have been Sirius Black for all we know," Auror Williamson burst out.

"We are also supposed to show restraint with uncharged suspects amid large crowds," Auror Gawain added. "We were forced by necessity to hold back."

Before Fudge or Umbridge could complain, Madame Bones asked, "Your conclusions?"

"Our testimony alone is irrelevant to this trial as the person beneath the glamor remains unidentified," Auror Bulan said. "Furthermore glamours alone are not illegal."

Umbridge exploded, "But you must charge him. You're Aurors. What are you for if not to arrest…" she remembered herself, "That is, the guilty parties, of course."

"Of course." Auror Bulan glared at Umbridge until she sat down again.

"Then, you have no testimony to offer for or against Mr. Potter?" Madame Bones asked.

"None," said Auror Gawain.

"No," said Auror Williamson.

"Nothing," said Auror Bulan.

"Very well, no more questions." The three Aurors left the floor. The Tonks' looked ready to melt in their chairs with relief. Harry had already forgiven them for their first meeting.

Madame Bones turned to him. "Mr. Potter, relay the events that took place upon the proclaimed day."

Harry began to do just that when Mrs. Tonks stood. "Under the charter of former DMLE head Persephone Prewitt I propose pensieve submission in order to most clearly show the facts of the case."

For the first time, Harry heard Narcissa Malfoy—hidden behind him and several rows of Wizengamot members—speak, "Penseives are notoriously fallible, allowing false memories to be shown—"

Head Auror Bones spoke calmly. "Penseive memories are permitted as eye-witness testimony is notoriously more infallible. However, to ensure truth and accuracy, the court may vote for testimony under veritaserum."

Narcissa's face paled but her features sharpened with outrage. Finally she mastered herself and sat down, "I know my husband was murdered, I do not need to see him dying."

"You have a pensieve available?" Fudge asked, tone attempting danger and falling short.

This time Mr. Tonks spoke, "Albus Dumbledore has kindly offered to loan one for the proceedings of this court." He nodded toward Dumbledore, who had mysteriously appeared beside them, stone bowl in hand.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge cleared her throat in a deliberately obnoxious way. She stood, though she was so short there hardly seemed a difference. "How are we to know that this pensieve has not been tampered with? A veritable wizard such as Albus Dumbledore could no doubt do so."

Cornelius Fudge sprang to his feet. "Exactly, who knows what obscure magics he's cast."

"Auror Bulan," Amelia Bones called, "You have been trained by the finest Aurors and magical detectives known." The older Auror stepped forward again, her third eye spell already activated. "Ensure this device is merely a pensieve and has not been further tampered with."

The Auror in question ran her wand through a litany of spells as she stared at it, even turning the empty pensieve over and carefully examining each rune until tension bled to boredom. "Well?" asked Fudge.

"You wanted me to ensure it was untampered with? Give me time." She took out a potion and a cloth and wiped the bowl down, examined it further and finally nodded. "Nothing. If anything got past me that potion just took care of it. Pensieve's fine." She sat the bowl back on the table for the defendants.

"Very well, if the Wizengamot is willing to accept Pensieve testimony…" Fudge trailed off and tried to give everyone meaningful looks, but human curiosity worked against him. Some members were willing to pick up a few brownie points to vote his way in something they saw as inconsequential. More were eager to see the murder of the century with their own eyes. The motion passed.

Fudge attempted to muster another objection only for Madame Bones to snap: "Enough minister. I shall examine the memory myself, as is proper for the director of the DMLE." Her tone was as steely as McGonagall's.

Harry's insides went numb again. Blood rushed too loudly through his ears. The Wizengamot were sharks on the hunt. The minister would find some and Umbridge would rip him open. His clenched nails threatened to tear the skin of his palms; he was about to show a damning memory to the head of law enforcement.

One of his most painful memories.

"I need my wand."

Albus Dumbledore stepped forward, as close to the cage bars as he could. "I will be able to retrieve the memory. Focus on what happened Harry."

He did and the headmaster withdrew a silvery strand from his head, through the bars and plunged it into the pensieve. The director of magical law enforcement was about to follow when Umbridge cleared her throat again. "It would be fairer to see the memory in its entirety, to better discern truth from lies."

"Of course," Albus Dumbledore allowed, "Let us all see the memory. In fact Mr. Potter, perhaps it would be best to show them _everything_."

His heart left his chest a hollow pit. Everything. He glanced at his defenders and they gave encouraging nods. Harry focused on his worst memory and more silvery strands slipped out of his head and into the bowl.

The Wizengamot members filed down toward the pensieve, some suspicious as though Harry had faked his memories, or the headmaster had swapped them out right there in the middle of the courtroom. Others had faces shining with so much curiosity it turned greedy. Fudge, who had left first, stared at the silvery pool. He must have gawked too long because Madame Bones stepped to the side and dipped one finger into the ethereal plasma of his memories. Other purple-robed wizards and witches followed suit, ringing the bowl and dipping their fingers in.

Waiting, Harry decided, was the most excruciating punishment.

This type of waiting was more excruciating than any other. He'd gambled his freedom, his life, by confessing a crime—but if this would expose Voldemort? It would be worth prison, he told himself, blood wetting sweaty palms. It would be worth Azkaban.

He tried to believe that.

Without a wand to cast spells, without an enemy to fight, Harry's strain had nowhere to go. His muscles were tensed, his magic flooding his veins like adrenaline without anything to cast or shoot. Worse he had to be calm when he was coiled as a rattlesnake ready to strike, surrounded by Aurors while the gazes of the Wizengamot pressed against his shoulders.

 _"Bow Harry, bow to death."_

Clenching his jaw, Harry straightened and gazed back at the people waiting eager as children about to see unforgivable demonstrated, their turn to view his worst memories.

Then the judges emerged. Iron-faced madame Bones looked a little rusty; the toad-faced Umbridge, appropriately colored; the bloodless-faced Minister who's legs gave out. Ancient, wise, powerful wizards and witches reduced to tears and trembles, to sickness and glassy-eyed horror and sheer denial over the memory of what Harry had survived. Dark satisfaction uncoiled at their shared pain, but they were only witnessing a reflection of Voldemort's horrific resurrection. They hadn't felt Voldemort's terrible will trying to crush them like an ant. They hadn't felt the lash of Voldemort's cruciatus curse, like the distilled pain a thousand slaves must have born over their whole lives. They hadn't felt the steel-cold realization of their own death, the knowledge that they could not win, could not live, could only make death count. Yet they panicked worse than he ever had.

Most of them anyway.

Madame Bones managed to keep her composure with firm, calming breaths. She glanced at him, her mannish features harder than ever, but gave him a stern nod of respect which silenced any pleasure he took from the sight.

By the time the last of the members of the governing body of wizards had seen the memories, the other two judges had found their voices. Umbridge spoke first.

"Lies."

This word jolted Fudge from his faint. "It's impossible. He's dead," the Minister whimpered. "Lucius promised—" he fell silent, remembering the death eater cringing and crawling in the dirt, begging.

"You've been taken for a fool Fudge," another Wizengamot member declared, Slytherin scheming in her eyes.

"The boy must be lying." Still another purple-robed member declared.

"Yes," Fudge shouted desperately, "The memories are faked."

"Could a fourteen-year-old boy fabricate such memories?" Madame Bones asked harshly.

Harry ground his teeth and tasted liquid iron but kept his temper by the narrowest of frayed threads. How dare they deny it after everything he sacrificed, after everything Cedric sacrificed? They had _seen_. One hand settled where his wand should be, clenching tight. Only his gritted teeth kept him from spitting lethal words. He was one step, one twitch away from exploding, like a hold of gunpowder eager for a spark. How dare they. How Dare They. How. Dare. They.

"Harry." Dumbledore spoke soothingly in a way no one could match. "You have mastered your fear in front of the very worst. Can you master your anger in front of the least," he nodded toward the Wizengamot. "They would prefer you to be angry. To give them some tool to use against you."

As if to drive home the headmaster's point, Narcissa spoke, "So he admitted it. The boy admitted to murdering my husband with that filthy muggle weapon."

"That was one of the memories shown, yes," said Madame Bones, "Alongside your husband casting the killing curse." They continued debating, but Harry couldn't hear the words over his own burning rage. Speech grew muddled among all the other shouting and accusations being flung around by the oh-so-grand court of wizards, their fine purple robes wrung with wrenching hands. Some were pale faced and wet faced. Others had let their dinners go and the stench of vomit infected the room. People looked at him with pity, with fear, with hope and horror and sly cunning in equal measure. Harry's anger cracked and coldness seeped in, like the chill in his heart when he'd pulled the trigger.

"Fine," Harry growled, so low and furious he couldn't recognize his own voice. He sounded possessed. "Fine." He'd faced Voldemort. He could face these idiots.

"See. See. The boy did kill Lucius." Another Fudge supporter shouted.

Before anyone, even his defenders, could speak, Harry interrupted. "If my memories are _lies_ ," he hissed, "Then I didn't kill anyone because that memory was a lie too." Like at the graveyard, what he had to do struck him with unnatural clarity. "Either I'm lying and I'm innocent," he continued, voice hard as his heart, "Or I'm guilty and Voldemort is back."

* * *

 **A/N:** A bigger, badder charge means a bigger badder trial and lots of ripple effects. The charges mean some people see Harry in an even worse light than before. The trial is also making other people consider (and regret) their life decisions.

Till next time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** After all the comments I got, I decided to edit this chapter. Clearly, it needed things cleared up. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and made this story better!

 **Chapter 8**

Mentioning Voldemort sent the whole governing body into a tizzy of yelps, shouts, screams and whimpers. Grown wizards and witches twisted their necks like owls as if the evil wizard was summoned to rain killing curses with his death eaters. Even Madame Bones flinched. Fudge had the look of a turtle whose shell had grown too small.

"Are these memories true or fudged," Madame Bones asked, looking Harry straight in the eye, "If they are false, then as you say, all their evidence is inadmissible in court."

Umbridge's face purpled as her mouth flapped uselessly, unable to decide which argument she wanted to support. Harry spoke. "They're true; I'll give you my oath on that."

"Do so."

"While chained?" Harry tried to raise an arm. With a flick of her wand, Madame Bones unleashed his right arm. He placed his hand over his heart. "I, Harry James Potter, do swear on my magic that every memory of mine witnessed in today's trial is truthful."

"Then he did murder Lucius Malfoy," Fudge blurted. "He admitted it. With a muggle weapon at that. Might as well have used the killing curse."

"Like the killing curse Malfoy attempted to use?" asked Mr. Tonks.

"Murder. With a muggle weapon," Umbridge croaked. "That…this trial is a waste of time. He admitted it. Aurors, do your duty." When the Aurors didn't move, she added, "Of course murder of a wizard with a muggle weapon is a death sentence. It is our law. Potter must be executed."

Williamson looked uneasily at Harry and Albus Dumbledore stepped protectively between the Aurors and the cage. "Clearly you do not know your law well enough," Andromeda argued, "While discriminatory, the law's punishment encompasses only muggles who use a firearm against a wizard. There is no law regarding a wizard who uses a firearm against another wizard."

Mr. Tonks continued, "However the law is much clearer regarding Dark Lords."

Fudge recovered and, with a shrewd expression, announced, "I vote we declare this meeting a CDM; everyone will take magical vows of secrecy to…to avoid a panic."

"No," Harry said.

But his vote—had he been allowed one—was drowned out by almost unanimous support of Fudge. Politicians might not agree on much but rare was the politician who did not agree to secrecy. Emboldened by the wave of support, Fudge said. "You will take a vow not to say a word about this meeting or I will drag you to Azkaban myself."

Harry Potter, chained, caged and wandless, glared at the wizards surrounding him. "Try it."

Before anyone could take him up on such a Gryffindor declaration, the Headmaster stepped in. "Perhaps Cornelius, you could barter with Mr. Potter regarding his silence. There is, after all, no reason to send anyone to prison for self-defense."

"Mr. Malfoy was clearly under the imperious. It's still murder—"

"—do not barter with murderers," added Umbridge.

"—no one should get away with murder, no matter how famous they are," The Minister finished.

Amelia Bones gave Fudge an ironic look before changing the subject. "The memories clearly showed Harry Potter defending himself against Lucius Malfoy."

"No, they clearly show both drawing against each other. With Lucius Malfoy under the imperious curse, that is still murder," another Wizengamot member spoke up. "We cannot allow Potter his freedom lest we open a slaughter upon all poor victims of mind-control."

Umbridge smiled too widely, like a toad about to eat a bug. "Exactly. We can hardly pardon a half-blood for such wanton slaughter unless we are condining the deaths of all those poor victims."

"There is no proof Lucius Malfoy was ever under the imperious curse, either before or now," Madame Bones shouted.

"Lucius might have had some politically incorrect ideas, but he was no murderer."

"—drawing weapons on each other—"

"Will every victim of mind control be punished for the crimes of their possessor?" A wizened witch rose. "In that case let us bring up what's-her-name, that Weasley girl." Beside the robed figure, Percy Weasley went white. Within his chair, Harry wanted to strangle whoever came up with the Imperious curse.

"—Won't stand for a pardon, he murdered—"

"—Need to get the muggleborns out of the Ministry before _he_ —"

"—For their own safety and I always said—"

"—Not a word, not a word breathed about anything."

"One at a time so we may understand your requests," Madame Longbottom shouted. Once things dulled to a roar she added, "Now, whatever else we may believe or not believe, it is clear the ministry needs a stronger Auror corps to deal with what is coming."

"Lest they become an Auror corpse," someone joked. Under the Head Auror's stern stare they fell silent.

"Such things are expensive," Fudge began, "We don't have the money especially not…"

"Yet we have the money to give you yet another three raises in the past two years," Madame Bones snapped, glaring at the minister.

"What excuse are we going to offer the public? Surely if anyone learns of," Fudge's voice dropped, "You-Know-Who coming back," it rose again, "There will be nation-wide panic. Society itself may collapse. And Potter—he's still guilty."

"That has yet to be conclusively proven," Ted Tonks said, "Likewise Lucius Malfoy's mental status at the time is unknown."

Ignoring him, a droopy mustached wizard said. "We can always blame it all on Sirius Black. He escaped from Azkaban after all. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's right-hand wizard—"

"He's innocent," Harry shouted. A couple people turned toward him, pointing their wands at their ears as though they couldn't hear—or didn't believe—him. "HE'S INNOCENT." Harry's voice boomed as though amplified by two megaphones and reverberated through the court. Those two words, though he didn't know it, even slipped through the silencing charms around the stone room.

"Impossible," Umbridge protested.

"Possible. I can show you the memories."

"Ah, ha now this is the trial of Harry Potter, not Sirius Black," Fudge said. "Besides, you have yet to make your own concessions."

Before his lawyers or Dumbledore could say a word, or snap off a silencing charm, Harry asked. "What do you want?"

Fudge's smiled was powered with pure greed. "I want you to admit in public that you were wrong. That you are an attention-seeking liar and that You-Know-Who never—"

"Go shit yourself."

"Then as a ministerial order subject Sirius Black to—"

"—never had a trial in the first place."

"Enough," Madame Bones broke the stalemate. "The Minister is correct that this is your trial, not Mr. Black's. If, however, Mr. Black has not had a trial, the Ministry of Magic will remedy that as according to law."

"That's right…wrong…yes," Fudge huffed. "We can't let a murderer get away without…something. Some years in Azkaban. Snapping his wand. Expelling him."

A whip-thin witch drowning in her purple robes cleared her throat, "Actually minister, according to Minister Gore's revised law regarding criminal youth—" Andromeda and Ted went rigid, "—'Any convicted criminal, regardless of crime, who remains in an educational institution at the time of conviction will be expelled and their wand snapped'."

"Well," Fudge said brightly, "That's a start."

"That's the law?" Harry glanced at his lawyers who nodded unhappily. "But it's also the law that everyone gets a trial and my godfather didn't get one."

Before anyone else could speak, Albus Dumbledore asked, "If we could present the evidence. As Mr. Potter witnessed this evidence and has previously taken a vow of truth regarding it, why not take advantage of said vow?" The headmaster pressed his wand to Harry's temple before more argument erupted and plopped another set of memories into the pensieve.

No one looked eager to dive back into Harry's memories, but Madame Bones resolutely strode forward and plunged her head in. Several others shuffled afterward, making another ring around the pensieve. Fudge was still grumbling, "He's guilty as Potter, I was on the responding squad for that nutter. Cackling like a mad-man he was and all those bits of poor Pettigrew," Fudge shuddered.

Harry opened his mouth to point out Lucius Malfoy had done worse as a death eater when the Headmaster (as though he could read Harry's mind) locked eyes with him and shook his head. Very quietly he whispered, "Not yet."

Madame Bones emerged and nodded to Harry, "This is something we all need to see, including you Minister," she dragged the indignant Fudge forward.

By the time the Minister fell back from the stone bowl, he was chalk-white as a corpse. "It can't…he can't. Impossible. Oh Merlin if word gets out we stuck an innocent man in Azkaban—"

"The boy's words are truth?" Another politician asked and two more dove into the memories to see for themselves.

These memories weren't as horrific as Harry's encounter with Voldemort, but some of the Wizengamot members looked even worse than when they'd seen the Dark Lord rise. "An heir to the house of Black. He could have been one of us," one witch whispered.

"Or one of us like him," another said darkly.

Fudge turned gray, "I'll be kicked out of office."

"Fool, the public would burn you at the stake—and all of Azkaban prison with it."

Most of the Wizengamot had seen the memory now. The roar was taken up again.

"—require a law! Azkaban should no longer be used as a punishment, it is inhumane, I always said." One wizard shouted, voice reedy with terror.

"—without a Trial, pissing on our justice system. Whoever's responsible for this I'll have their head."

"That was the previous administration, not mine." Fudge fled from blame as another would flee from a dragon.

"Enough." Dumbledore did not shout, but his voice took on a magical quality which pierced through a dozen arguments and silenced everyone. "Regardless of anything else, Sirius Black has not had a trial and requires one. This is the law."

"Then he shall have one," Madame Bones said. Her steely glare and hard jaw dared anyone to argue.

Fudge looked away. "No one is arguing a trial but what will we tell the public? We have only these horrific memories for evidence and by oath no one will divulge any details to the public…" Fudge's voice became more comfortable as he spoke.

"We don't have to tell them anything," another politician said. "Rescind the 'kiss on sight' order and have him brought in like any other criminal. We can try him in secret."

"No secret trials," Harry shouted.

"Such nerve," Umbridge shouted back, as though having nerve was a criminal offense. "The ministry is being beyond merciful to a murderer such as yourself. Truly, a wand snapping and expulsion—as though you had only used underage magic—is too light a punishment."

"A fair trial is the right of every witch or wizard," Dumbledore pressed.

"But how shall we justify this to the public?" Fudge protested. "The people on the streets would lynch Black themselves."

"Perhaps Minister we could change things to our advantage," yet another politician offered, voice sluggishly slimy. "Say we are questioning Sirius Black on the events of the World Cup and the end of the Tri Wizarding tournament. During this questioning we find out Lucius Malfoy was responsible for these horrors—a pity the man is no more—"

"You dare throw my husband under the dragon while his murderer sits right there," Narcissa shouted.

"Malfoy was following V—," Harry interrupted but the other politicians were nodding along with the story.

"—An investigation can be opened up regarding the late Mr. Malfoy and we find him the instigator behind both the events of the World Cup and the tragic murder of Cedric Diggory."

"Now wait a minute he was my advisor," said the Minister. "Publicly at that—"

"—investigation first, conclusions after," Madame Bones said. "Doing things the other way around locked Sirius Black in hell for a dozen years."

"—anyone who continues with this ridiculous notion will face the full wrath of the Malfoy family," Narcissa warned.

The slimy politician was undeterred. In the silence, he continued, "As he is unfortunately dead due to Harry Potter, we have no other recourse but to confiscate the entire Malfoy fortune."

Fudge froze mid-argument. "The entire?" he whispered reverently. Narcissa paled.

"Yes, I believe the Malfoy fortune is around one billion galleons."

"I heard ten billion."

"We are not quite so fortunate," Narcissa admitted. "My attempts to seek justice for my husband," here she glared at different members, "Have put a dent in our fortune. However, once justice is done Malfoy wealth will grow again under my hand…though only the supportive may reap the harvest." She gave both Umbridge and Fudge significant looks.

Umbridge tittered, "Of course, of course, I have not forgotten…"

Ignoring all this, Madame Bones said, "Lucius Malfoy may well have had something to do with other recent events. According to testimony," she nodded toward the pensieve, "He was witness to some such happenings. Any investigation of known associates, including his family, will be completed before any conclusions are drawn."

"Don't be ridiculous, can anyone imagine Draco being in some sort of plot," Narcissa argued. Harry had, back in second year, but look how that had turned out. "And what of the real murderer?"

Fudge gave Harry a creepy stare, "Well it is true that we cannot allow killers to simply walk free. Who knows what they may do?"

"Defend themselves again, no doubt," Andromeda Tonks said. "What else can a fifteen-year-old boy do when the Ministry of Magic has so thoroughly failed him? Who has allowed innocents to be locked away in Azkaban while the guilty run free and dark lords rise?"

"My godfather—" Harry spoke numbly.

"Your godfather may be innocent but that does not erase your own guilt," Fudge said. "And we can definitively conclude from his own pensieve memory testimony that Harry Potter is clearly guilty—"

"—Of self-defense," Andromeda Tonks said.

"Lucius was beneath the Imperious curse clearly—"

"—casting the killing curse."

The words blurred to Harry's ears. But it was worth it, he thought. They knew the truth about his godfather now. He tried to convince himself that was true as the politicians bickered about him as though he were a prize hog suddenly slain. Oh, what a pity? Now who wants some bacon?

"—Azkaban."

"Yes, I am certain the public will be very interested in you throwing the Boy-Who-Lived in with the sort of people who helped murder his family and friends," said Ted Tonks.

"Ah, but we are all going to swear a vow of secrecy on this whole incident, are we not," said Umbridge.

"A vow which, by law, cannot encompass the results of anything decided here. The public will learn of any miscarriage in justice." Dumbledore warned, eyeing Fudge and Umbridge shrewdly, "Acknowledge that there is a wide chasm between self-defense and murder, imperious curse or not."

"Don't be silly, I am the Minister of Magic and still within my rights to send that hooligan off to prison. Why must I make concessions to a murderer?"

"I for one vote to stop bickering like a bunch of children and write up the oath," Madame Bones said. "Some of us have proper work to do."

"An excellent suggestion," Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I do not think anyone would be too terribly upset to not communicate the deal spoken in this chamber."

"Perhaps a slightly different wording," Umbridge began.

"I want a trial for my godfather."

"And I want you to share a prison cell with him," said Narcissa.

"Now, now, let's be reasonable," said Fudge.

An agreement was hammered out. The oath was sworn, and Harry relaxed a little. His godfather would have a fair trial. Even if he didn't trust Fudge or any of his cronies further than he could spit them, Amelia Bones had sworn, and she would keep her word.

"And now, the verdict. Is Harry Potter guilty or innocent of killing Lucius Malfoy, wands lit for guilty, down for innocent."

The dimmed chambers erupted in light. Only three people of the entire crowd didn't have their wands up and lit—Madame bones, and another man and woman who sat rigidly in the back beneath the stares of their peers.

"Excellent," Fudge looked pleased. "Now for the sentence. How many vote for Azkaban."

"Throw Harry Potter into Azkaban and I will remember the names of all who voted it so," Albus Dumbledore sounded cold.

Fewer wands were lit. Whether because the purebloods were unwilling to sentence a fifteen-year-old to the infamous prison, or because of Dumbledore, or both. A count had to be made.

"Narcissa Malfoy, your vote does not count," Madame Bones pointed out. The scowling witch lowered her wand.

"Twenty four out of fifty. The motion fails."

Fudge scowled, though his expression was nothing compared to Narcissa. "Very well then, the wand." Fudge's face filled with unholy glee as he seized the holly wood. Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react. "You are still found guilty of killing Lucius Malfoy," he said with satisfaction. Umbridge had an even more hideous smile on her toad-like face. Narcissa hovered behind them, expressionless as stone. "You are expelled from Hogwarts, starting immediately, and your wand snapped. It is henceforth illegal for you to buy, trade or own another wand. Good luck with the muggles." Fudge brought both hands down.

For a moment, holly wood flexed and bent and resisted, but only a moment. An awful crack echoed through the chamber. Harry's wand split, a bit of phoenix feather glinting dully from between the two halves. His heart seized. His fingers turned white. His teeth ground together hard enough to fuse. Only years of dealing with Dudley and his gang kept his eyes dry and his voice silent. Don't react. That's what they want. They want your tears and screams. Don't. Don't. Don't. Sirius will be free. Harry unclenched slightly. His godfather's freedom for his wand. And Hogwarts. A fair trade.

Harry didn't remember the chains releasing him or the cage opening. He felt foggy in the head. Hogwarts had been his home. His only home. But now with his Godfather free, he would have a new home. No more Dursleys; just real family. The headmaster placed a hand on his shoulder, "Just a little longer Harry and your godfather will finally get justice."

Harry nodded listlessly.

"Very good," Albus Dumbledore smiled wanly without meeting his eyes, "I know it is a harsh compromise, but the mark of all good compromises is how little satisfied with them anyone is."

Harry turned away. He didn't want words of wisdom or a Headmaster who couldn't stand to meet his gaze or anything but home. Sleep. And in the middle of fifty other people milling around him, of being shoved into a cupboard of words, Harry felt a bone-deep tug right at his navel.

Like the Triwizarding Trophy.

He twisted to free himself but whoever had him gripped like a vice. Smooth ministry walls vanished. The world warped. Harry drove a fifty-galleon dragon-hide boot into his captor's gut and they fell away from each other and the portkey. Ice-cold wind cut through his fancy robes and into his bones. The world didn't revolve itself into a graveyard as he half-expected. Harry would have killed Lucius Malfoy all over again for the comfort of familiar tombstones. Instead his feet hit rock so hard he was driven to his knees. One sharp, flinty edge drove into the joint. The stench of dead fish and harsh salt was overpowering. Waves crashed ceaselessly against black stone as the deep shadow of the looming tower engulfed everything.

None of these chilled his nerves like the familiar presence of dementors. He scrambled for his wand, but it wasn't there. It had been snapped. Desperately he held out his hand. "Expecto—"

A flash of light shot toward him, but he dodged and it harmlessly hit the dementor sneaking up on him. "Exp—"

Again a spell interrupted him and nicked an ear. Freezing chill slowed his reflexes and a third spell caught him, bowling him over and tearing the wind from his lungs. A masked, robed death eater approached, a gleeful smile beneath a mask so realistically skeletal it might have belonged to a victim.

"Expecto Patronum," his captor shouted, keeping the dementor still with a cloud of mist.

"Can I have him?" asked a familiar voice. Draco Malfoy.

"Keep away from him son," his captor instructed.

Beneath the death eater mask Harry caught a glimpse of familiar blond hair. Lucius Malfoy? No, he was dead. Harry could see the wizard's slack face in his mind's eye. But he heard Voldemort could raise real zombies: inferi. His brain kicked him for such a stupid thought. The voice was female.

"Your life is the Dark Lord's to take but he has granted me any other punishment I please. And you have no idea what I've sacrificed for—" Harry drove his fist into Narcissa's gut with one hand and seized her wand in the other, forcing its tip toward her temple. His knee throbbed but the pain was muffled by adrenaline. His second punch caught her in her throat. Why had he vetoed learning karate again? He could have drop-kicked her and escaped.

"Crucio." The widow growled, twitching her wand toward him.

Oh, that was why.

Harry screamed as the torture curse lashed him like a thousand white-hot metallic whips dripping with napalm. Molten lead burned into his eyeballs, into his ears, into every nerve and every brain cell and it was impossible to think of anything except blinding-white agony. Even after the cruel magic was lifted, Harry could only twitch feebly, all his strength gone. Trying to get on his hands and knees took everything he had.

"Mother?"

"Don't come near, I'll not lose you too." Narcissa Malfoy clamped a hand around Harry's arm and hauled him roughly into the shadow. Still twitching from the aftermath of the curse, he couldn't pull free or resist. The two staggered toward the pitted iron gates, which welcomed them with eerie screeches.

Azkaban.

The name alone tugged at some primal fear in his gut and Harry found his strength again. Narcissa had a good grip on his arm but only his upper arm. He tackled her, forcing her to the ground with his body weight while grappling for her wand with both hands. She reacted quicker this time (or he's slower) and cast a petrifying spell. Harry was immobilized as easily as any wild animal.

No human wardens stopped them or looked at them. Dementors drifted closer, sensing fresh souls, but when they saw Narcissa's black robes and white mask they floated to a stop. Their gulps were a mockery of living breath. The cold of Azkaban was harsh like winter, when crisp fall lingered in memory and August heat faded from dreamland. Powerful winds drove the chill deep into the roots of his nerves, as though he wore nothing. But the Dementors were worse. Their cold went past his bones, past his body. Though he knew his mother was long dead, her screams mingled with the shouts and screams and jeers of prisoners. His soul was freezing over, the warmth of happiness leeched away. His strength faded; Cedric's dead face haunted him; the ethereal stench of the Dursley's corpses decomposing in the heat clogged his nose; Sirius's emaciated face seemed to replace every prisoner he passed. But, his godfather was alive? Free? No, not Sirius.

He struck out, suddenly able to move again but the chill stiffened his limbs and the aftermath of the cruciatus turned his nerves twitching and fumbling. His weak strike was easy to dodge. Her sharp, strong one impossible. As he crumpled to the floor another wave of magic washed over him, though Harry felt no pain. Not that a broken bone was painful after the torture curse.

"Rot here for everything you've done."

A metallic door screeched shut against stone. Harry rolled over to see iron bars, barely distinguishable against the darkness. It was still dark. The full moon was still risen. Distantly, he knew the full moon was important. He scrambled to his knees and grabbed the bars in his hands, pulling his face upwards. Thunderclouds cloaked the sky. Harry couldn't see a single ray of moonlight.

 **END**

 **A/N:** For now. There will be a sequel because things aren't over, but here's a good stopping point. I've wrapped up all the 'Summer of Change' type stuff. The sequel story will deal with the 'Harry in Azkaban' plot. Hope everyone enjoyed. Thanks for reading!


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